Font of Life Part 4
by Rosywonder
Summary: Illya is reunited with Therese, but will Napoleon be able to prevent his partner being altered permanently by 'Los Hermanas malas?


CHAPTER 13

The little harbour was a stark contrast to Palma, but Illya decided that he liked them both. Before Therese, Mallorca might have been well down his list of places to visit or even go on holiday to, but now the island gripped his heart as she did. As he walked down the road towards the harbour, he wondered if Tess had received his letter, and if it had helped her. He tried to imagine her as she looked now, but it proved impossible; he just couldn't erase the long ponytail from his images of her, and part of him slightly dreaded what he might see. He could instantly hear himself telling Frankie that hairstyles weren't important. He ran his hand through his growing, but still very short, hair, and hoped she would think that was true too.

From a distance, Illya could see the boat moored at the harbour, the Bolt logo stencilled on the side of the powerful vessel. He swore under his breath in Russian as he saw who was standing on the deck. Jordan Lawrence was scanning the horizon with field binoculars, making a circular sweep of the roads coming down to the little port. He stopped, and stood there for the few moments it took her to get him in her sights. She paused, and then Illya could see her adjusting the binoculars to get a clearer view of him. For a second, he almost felt like waving, as if he needed to attract her attention. They both stood like this for what seemed a long time to Illya, but were merely seconds, before she put the binoculars down, and he continued to walk towards her.

As he came nearer, he saw her gesticulating to another person who was invisible to Illya, and then draw something from her back. It was hard to keep on walking, with no cover or means of defending himself, but Illya continued without hesitation, the boat growing in size and menace as he approached. He could see her quite clearly now. She was stood at the back of the boat, where she had jumped down to, when she had first seen him. She had the genderless appearance of the other Bolt guards, but she hadn't lost the sneer which had habitually adorned her face when she had lived in their house. No doubt Bolt had chosen her as a double insult to Kuryakin; a turned agent to escort a captured agent. Perfect.

As he reached the boat, he was aware of the other girls. A redhead was standing now where Jordan had stood before, at the top of the boat, aiming a sub-machine gun in his direction; he could just see another girl at the wheel. As if to complete the quartet, another figure emerged from inside. Illya sighed. She obviously couldn't wait for her birthday present to come to her – she had come to him. Dr Winnifred Engel, minus her white coat for once, stood waiting, her arms folded over her rather shapeless dark blue trouser suit, her spectacles catching the evening sun. Illya was surprised that Elena hadn't come along for the ride too. No doubt she would be among the welcoming party at the island.

He slowly raised his arms as Jordan approached, her pistol raised.

'Well, good evening Illya, care to come aboard?' Jordan sneered, giving him a strange, almost sensual glance up and down.

'No, I can't say I do,' he replied, stepping forward, making sure she didn't get near enough to be able to do anything nasty with the butt of her gun. She motioned him forward towards the interior of the vessel, past the silent figure of the Nazi surgeon. He could hear the other girl jumping down from the roof of the boat, and the third one, a very thin, tall girl with black hair, starting the engine.

The interior of the boat was well appointed; it was obviously not the usual one used to patrol the island. They clambered down some steep steps to the lower deck, opulently fitted out in cream leather and a rich, light wood. Illya raised his eyebrows at the sight of it.

'Yes, you're honoured. This is Granite's own boat, Illya, sent over for a special package' Jordan continued to sneer. Her attitude was getting on his nerves, together with the ludicrous alternative names they all called themselves. He could see that the door at the end of this room led to a bedroom; he guessed what was coming next. Dr Engel's feet appeared, followed by the rest of her in due course, with the redhead clattering down in quick succession. Jordan handed her colleague the pistol and turned towards Illya. He looked towards the bedroom.

'In here?' he said, sighing. The room was quite large for a boat, and the girls were able to stand either side of him at the end of the large double bed, with ease. Without speaking, he began to take his clothes off.

'We don't want a repeat of the farce in East Berlin, do we Doctor; this time, I'm here to make sure you do as you are told, Kuryakin' Jordan said sharply. Illya shrugged, and continued removing his clothes. In his vest and underpants, he sat down, removed his shoes and socks and put them neatly with the rest of his clothes. 'Carry on' Jordan ordered, 'just in case you might be hiding something. Don't forget I know all about your little UNCLE tricks, Illyusha'. Illya cringed at her mocking use of his diminutive; her abhorrence of him was almost palpable, he thought. He turned his back to her, and slowly removed the rest of his clothing.

As he straightened up, Jordan pushed him hard onto the bed. She looked down at him lying prone on top of the white sheets, a criss-cross of recent scars and marks scattered across his body.

'Somebody's made quite a mess of you' she whispered in his ear; 'still, it won't matter soon, will it?'. Illya forced himself not to turn and punch her sneering face. He felt the hard coldness of a pistol against his temple. 'Move over to the edge, Mr Kuryakin' Jordan continued, 'Dr Engel just wants to make sure there are no little gadgets stuck in you somewhere'. Illya slowly moved to the edge of the bed, trying to keep his legs together without success. He felt the gun at his ankle, slowly running up his leg, then pushing into his testicles. He pushed his head into the sheets, forcing himself not to react to her, not to give her any reason to hurt him.

'I don't have anything hidden in there, I can assure you', Illya said, twisting his head to the side.

'Oh, but you have, Illya. That's where your special gift is being kept nice and cool, surely?' she whispered acidly, really close to his head.

Jordan stood up and took the gun away, as a new pair of hands began to explore his body.

'And make sure you stay perfectly still this time, Mr Kuryakin, otherwise . .'

'Otherwise what, Jordan? You'll kill me?' Illya replied savagely. 'I can't imagine that your leader will be grateful to you for damaging the prize package before it is even delivered, isn't that right, Doctor?' he added, wriggling under the hands of Dr Engel as she poked and prodded him.

'Quite so, Mr Kuryakin' Dr Engel murmured, 'we are going to spend a lot of time together, _nicht wahr_?. Her grip on his arm suddenly tightened, making him wince slightly. The voice became hard and cold. 'Now, turn over, if you don't mind, and this time without the accompanying violence, Mr Kuryakin, otherwise I will be forced to begin a few investigations here, rather than in the comfort of my own laboratory. After all, we don't want any unfortunate stains do we?'. Illya grimaced and turned over. He could see the expressions of all the women clearly.

'Mm. Impressive. I can see why Storm wants you back so much' Jordan sniggered. The other girl, the redhead, came over and suddenly grabbed his penis, with the inevitable reaction. Illya closed his eyes and tried to relax, trying to think of anything which would take his mind off what was going on in the room. He had waited a long time for this to happen he thought, but not with her.

'No, Fox. Don't want to waste any of the precious cargo, do we? Jordan said sarcastically. The girl called Fox let go, leaning towards him, her green eyes slits in her rather expressionless face. 'Granite's chosen a really good producer for you' she drawled, in rather a strong French Canadian accent; 'actually she looks a bit like you, you know, master race stuff; blonde hair, blue eyes; but unlike you, she's the real deal, one of the real '_master race''_.

Illya tried to keep his face as still as he could as the implication of her words sunk in. He now didn't need to speak to Sabi; the guard had delivered the message clearly. His head sunk slightly onto his chest, his eyes closing with effort of thinking about what had been said. He thought of Napoleon only last night assuring him that all would go to plan. Obviously, this part of the plan hadn't quite been reckoned on.

From what was already happening, they were obviously going to take no chances with him. Presumably he would be given some clothes to wear when they had eventually tired of squeezing and prodding him like a giant rubber ball, but he could hardly imagine they would allow him to just walk off the boat unrestricted.

'Get up' Jordan was shouting from the other side of the room. Some clothes were flung at him, and he began to get dressed; Engel had left the room momentarily, but Jordan and the girl called Fox remained; he was obviously not going to be left alone at all. Illya sat up and started to put on the underwear, then, predictably, a pair of black jeans, a black long-sleeved t-shirt and some black gym shoes. He began to wonder if even he might give black a rest for a while.

Just as he finished putting on the shoes, Dr Engel returned, brandishing a syringe filled with an evil looking green liquid. The two guards were by his side in seconds. They yanked him off the bed and onto a chair which had been placed conveniently near, forcing up the sleeve of his t-shirt, then pinning his arms down to the harder ones of the chair beneath him.

'Now, Mr Kuryakin, I do hope you won't struggle' Dr Engel said. 'This is something I just discovered accidentally as a by-product of my work on the brain. 'With my other subjects, the effects have not been long-lasting, but one never knows, does one, how it will be with different subjects'.

'May I ask what the effects are going to be?' Illya asked, trying not to sound too worried. Dr Engel rubbed his inner arm with some surgical spirit, and then slid the needle into his vein.

'Well Mr Kuryakin, we need to make sure that you won't try anything foolish like trying to escape, particularly with Granite's baby, _ja_? _So_' she said, in a particularly teutonic accent, 'you'll soon _see _the effect of the injection, I am sure', a cruel smile creeping across her face.

As she drew the needle out of his arm, he automatically tried to get up, although afterwards, he didn't know why. A black wave of dizziness hit him like a sledgehammer; the room appeared to spin round and away from him, the women's faces caught in its vortex in his strange contorted world. He could feel their arms welded onto his own, pushing him onto the bed, the dizziness causing the bed to feel as if it had risen to meet him, rather than him having flopped onto its soft whiteness. Whiteness rapidly faded to blackness then, as his body finally succumbed to the effects of the drug.

'Oh , poor Illya' Jordan spat in his ear, 'that should stop you wandering off now, shouldn't it?'.

Xxxxxxxxx

''Stella Maris', there she is', Fernando shouted cheerfully, waving to a man with skin rather like a cured tobacco leaf, who stood on board the small vessel. Napoleon walked along behind him, humping his own diving equipment, and feeling slightly disgruntled. _Illya would have loved this _he thought to himself, watching the younger agent throwing his own equipment on board and then jumping in rather joyously to greet his old friend.

'Juni, this is Napoleon; Napoleon, meet Junipero, master of this fair craft' Fernando continued in the same, rather jolly way. Napoleon imagined what it was going to be like when Fernando and Vaz got together; he hoped Illya would be there by then to translate for him. _Illya. _He looked at his watch. By now, the Russian would be reaching the island, and what Napoleon imagined would be a special Bolt reception party. Kuryakin's naturally taciturn manner had been apparent when they had last talked, when Napoleon had tried to assure him that all would go according to plan. Somehow, though, they both knew this didn't usually quite happen. But the Russian was now in a far more dangerous place than he, and with evil, unpredictable enemies around him.

On cue, his communicator began to sound.

'Ah, Mr Solo, anything to report? I thought I would check before you reach the island, as it were, when communications might be a trifle difficult' Waverly said, in typical understatement.

'Er, well, Sir, everything is going according to plan as far as I know. Mr Kuryakin successfully made the drop and I presume is now about to land. Apparently Ms Bolt sent her own boat to fetch him, with, so Mr Fernandes says, Miss Lawrence on board'. Waverly exhaled deeply.

'Yes, well that would be her style, I imagine. I can't think that they will do anything with Mr Kuryakin this evening, but please don't hang around too long, Mr Solo before you effect your back-up strategy will you? Oh, by the way' he added, 'have you tested the communication with Mr Kuryakin? It's rather important if you're not to leave it too late, or even have any idea of what is going on at that place, don't you think?'

'Um, yes, I mean no, I haven't tried it yet, sir. I thought I might wait until later, when I guess he'll be held on his own somewhere, and I'll be on the island, so I can test it's effectiveness there against the communication dampener, which, according to Sabi, has been strengthened this week to exclude routing calls via Palma'.

'Quite so. Well, look after Mr McCaffery, won't you, and as soon as that damn dampener is taken out of commission, perhaps you might like to let me know how the mission is progressing. Waverly out'.

Fernando was laying out the scuba equipment on the benches either side of the wheelhouse. He looked up when Solo had finished speaking.

'How're you going to talk to him? I thought he left all his stuff behind in the hotel?' he asked, his brown eyes quizzically gazing at Napoleon.

'Remember his visit to the dentist last week?'. Who could forget it? A smile came to Napoleon's face at the thought of the Russian, rubbing his jaw in the Commissary and moaning about 'a perfectly good Soviet filling that had to be removed and replaced with this', opening his mouth and insisting on showing Napoleon the rather sore looking gum over which the new 'filling' had been cemented in place. 'Anyway,' Napoleon continued, 'that 'filling' is a development we made after a mission when this girl had a tooth that received radio waves. Luckily, or unluckily for Illya, depending on how you see it, he doesn't have to drink rum to make it work'.

Fernando's brows contracted at the story.

'So, how does it work?' He said. Napoleon shrugged.

'Don't ask me about the details. All I know is that it is tuned to my frequency, I can speak to him via this' he continued, pointing to his communicator, 'and he can hear me, and respond by just talking. However, he needs to be careful, otherwise we don't want an 'outside broadcast' if his mouth happens to be open at the wrong time' he added.

'Neat' Fernando replied, laughing at the thought of Napoleon's voice coming out of Illya's mouth. 'That could be ultra-embarrassing if he's, you know, _with_ my sister, and you kind of 'burst in' on . .'

'I get the drift' Napoleon replied. He had definitely been spending too much

time with Americans.

The boat, surprisingly powerful for something, which to Napoleon looked rather ancient, powered away from the harbour, rapidly fading from view in the soft dusk . Once the course was set, they sat down opposite each other on the benches to discuss the strategy for reaching safe haven without alerting the Amazonian forces of Ms Bolt.

'When we get near the island' Junipero began rather abruptly, speaking in Spanish, rather than his preferred Catalan for Napoleon's benefit, 'I will cut the engines. It will not be long before we receive a visit from '_Las hermanas'_. Fernando smiled.

'No, Juni, not 'the sisters'; they're in the Convent. You'll have to give them another name' he said.

'_Las hermanas malas'_ Junipero replied.

'_Evil sisters. Perfect'_ Napoleon thought. Junipero continued to outline the plan, seemingly able to guide the boat and look at the two agents at the same time. While the 'evil sisters' would be investigating the boat's engine with Junipero, Napoleon and Fernando had to make their getaway. It was crucial that they were in the water by the time the guards were boarding Juni's vessel. Then all they had to do, was to scale the cliffs below the Convent, without being seen of course, and they were there. Napoleon frowned. He had to hope that Fernando realised that this was a little more serious than a scene from 'The Guns of Navarone'; besides which he positively disliked all that underwater stuff that the Russian loved so much.

'O.K. Napoleon?' Fernando asked, making a final check of the scuba gear. Solo nodded. He wondered why he was fretting about it so much; after all, McCaffery had virtually been brought up round these islands, and diving must come as second nature to him. He decided it was must be one thing that was making him so cranky; he was either missing his wife, which he was, though he wouldn't admit this to Fernando, or he was missing his partner, or both. He thought both.

Fernando began scrabbling around in a cupboard at the side of the wheelhouse, coming out with some food for them, before it got too near to the dive to consider eating at all. The _tapas _Junipero had provided were a perfect refreshment before the rigours of the evening began. Yet again, Napoleon consulted his watch and gazed across the comparatively still Mediterranean water towards the island, thinking of his partner. He was sure that the little feast of olives, almonds and fresh anchovies, or anything like it, would not be served to the Russian that night. Napoleon wondered whether he dared try the frequency that should connect him to Illya via his tooth. He twiddled with his communicator, noticing that Fernando was watching him out of the corner of his eye.

'I think it's too early to talk to him yet. Why don't you wait till we're on the island, before the climb?' he ventured. It seemed then, that all the McCafferys had some kind of intuitive sense, Napoleon thought. He sighed and looked out into the darkening water, his mood matching it.

Xxxx

The dull thudding of the boat's side on the dock woke Illya from the absolute blackness of what he imagined was a drug-induced sleep. He slowly opened his eyes, his head still spinning faintly and refusing to stop. Strangely, even bearing in mind it must be night by now, it seemed so dark that he couldn't see at all. As he sat up he realised. Although it must be night, the darkness came not from the outside, but from inside his head. He was completely blind.

He took several long, deep breaths to calm himself, before carefully moving to the edge of the bed. This wasn't the first time he'd done this sort of thing, he reasoned with himself, only that before, he'd been wearing something that he knew could, in theory at least, be taken off at any time. Illya had a more or less photographic memory, so that an image of the room came to him fairly easily. He stood up and moved slowly towards what he was certain was the door. He felt for the handle and slowly pushed down, pulling the door towards him. Before he could react to the fact that his senses were telling him someone was there, the door was violently shoved towards him, hitting Illya a glancing blow on his face as he lost balance and fell backwards onto the bed.

'Going somewhere?'. Jordan's voice filled the room, her grating, sarcastic tones biting into the blackness. Illya struggled to get up again, flailing around to regain his balance, only to be dragged forwards and up by two pairs of unseen, rough hands. 'Get them on; you think he's safe like this?' he heard her snarl, in a low, animal growl, to the other guard. He felt his arms stretched out as the cold, hard metal rings were clamped round his wrists, and he was dragged forward and through the door towards the stairs.

'Stop' Illya said, forcing the two women to come to a halt by the sound of his voice. 'I can assure you, that I am going nowhere like this, but I would prefer to walk, rather than be dragged' he added quietly. There was a slight hiatus before another voice was heard above them.

'Please don't damage him, _mädchen_, he needs to be kept intact, _bitte'. _Illya smiled at the intervention of the Nazi doctor. It was ironic that she should be protecting him from being 'damaged' as she had put it, by the two guards. He was sure they hadn't appreciated her referring to them as 'girls' either, but whatever they felt, her intervention was timely. The dragging ceased, and he was guided up the stairs a little more gently.

Having lost his sight, Illya's other senses felt heightened, his hearing and smell acute: the smell and sound of the water smacking against the harbour wall; the crunch of the gravel underneath his shoes; and most of all, the feeling of animal malice emanating from Jordan Lawrence, as she marched him up the road towards the waiting jeep. As the vehicle's movement jerked him from side to side, his only comfort was that with every minute, every second, he was drawing closer to Therese.

If he imagined that he was going to meet either his wife or Li-Hua Bolt that evening, he was destined to be disappointed. Dr Engel had obviously found her way home a different way, and the 'girls' continued to be his sole companions. After a relatively short drive, the vehicle skidded to a halt, and he was dragged out, rather more roughly now, since his protector was no longer there. There seemed very little point in saying anything, Illya thought; it was unlikely that Jordan would offer anything that would help him to orientate himself. At last, after a short walk along another gravel path, which Illya guessed must be in the grounds of the farmhouse, he heard a door being opened, and he was unceremoniously shoved inside.

The room they were in smelt strange; a distinct, animal aroma invaded his senses. The floor felt hard beneath his feet, but not smooth; rough tiles or bricks he thought. It was not a large room he was certain , and he was sure there was no-one else there.

'Welcome to your accommodation, Illya dear. Very suitable for, what did Dr Engel call him . .?' Jordan said, her voice sharp with sarcasm, 'oh yes, _Russich swein'_ that's it'. Then he realised. It was some kind of stable, hence the animal smell. Or even, as Jordan had so unsubtly hinted, a pigsty. A pigsty for a Russian swine. Before he could collect his thoughts further, she gave him a hefty shove forwards. He stumbled, then fell headlong, landing in something soft and scratchy. Straw.

'Oh, and Illya . .' he heard Jordan say, as he struggled to sit up, 'don't bother to ask for the rest room, will you? I'm sure you know what pigs do when they need to, well, you know'. The door clanged shut, bolts were shot, and he heard the two women laughing as they crunched up the path. A loud, mocking laughter.

Xxxxxx

They could see the lights coming towards them very clearly now, the waves making the light seem to hiccup over the cold black space between them. Fernando was already halfway over the side of the boat on the starboard side, and Napoleon watched his flippered feet disappear backwards, as he turned to signal to Juni. The Mallorcan nodded silently, and leaned across the wheel, waiting for the patrol boat to come to beside him.

Solo rammed his oxygen mouthpiece in place, and brought his mask over his face, as he flipped himself overboard and plunged headlong into the water. Despite the wetsuit, Napoleon always found the shock of the cold water unpleasant, and welcomed seeing the Russian's blue eyes guiding him on, the blonde hair usually swirling above his head like a strange sea anemone. But tonight, it was a different brother-in-law that beckoned, his curly head lit up by Napoleon's torch, as they clung to the hull of the boat, then plunged deeper and farther away.

Fernando had strapped his torch to his arm, so providing a clear beacon of light for Solo to follow. He concentrated on following the youngest McCaffery, pushing back worries about how Junipero might be faring, to the back of his mind. Fernando had assured him that he had dealt with '_Las Hermanas malas' _on many occasions, and the superficial, rather antiquated appearance of his boat would help to persuade them that it had indeed ground to a halt through age rather than interference.

It was fortunate for them that the night was cloudy, but relatively still for this invariably windy island. Nevertheless, Napoleon was relieved to feel and see the sea bed rising up to them as they neared the cove which swept round the north part of the island. He felt Fernando's strong hand pulling him out of the water, and they both staggered up the beach into the lea of an overhanging rock formation below the main cliffs. Napoleon pulled out his mouthpiece and removed his mask, throwing himself back against the cliffs.

'O.K?' Fernando asked, as he started to clamber out of his diving gear. The swim didn't seem to have tired him at all, and he was soon returning with a dark box which he had retrieved from one of the small caves at the edge of the narrow beach. Napoleon hauled himself up, and dragged off his wet suit, gladly exchanging it for the warmer, and more comfortable clothes Fernando handed to him. When he was changed, he hunted round for his communicator as Fernando busied himself with stashing the now unwanted diving equipment.

For the umpteenth time that evening, he consulted his watch. Surely now he would be alone. It was unfortunate that this device was rather one-sided, Napoleon thought; there was no way in which Illya could try to contact him. He shrugged. Still, it was better than nothing. He twisted the barrel to the unique frequency, and called his partner's name.

'Illya. Are you there?'. There was silence for what felt like a very long time, before anything happened.

'Yes. I'm 'there', I suppose, depending on where you think 'there' is'. Napoleon smiled. At least he sounded as if he was still in one piece, sardonic sense of humour intact. There was a pause. 'I presume', Illya continued, 'that you and our brother-in-law have landed, as it were'.

'Yes, we're at the bottom of the cliffs, about to start the climb. I hope the girls didn't give you too rough a time. Did you notice anything on the way to the house?' There was another long pause; Napoleon frowned. He was definitely not telling him something, yet.

'Um, no, it was only moderately unpleasant, mainly due to the charming personality of our former colleague and her lovely companions' Illya replied. Napoleon grunted at the thought of Jordan being involved.

'So what aren't you telling me, comrade?'. He may as well come out with it, as the Russian was becoming more obtuse by the second. He could see Fernando staring at him, also, it seemed, wondering just what was going on the other end.

'Er, well there are one or two things that haven't quite gone to plan, that is _your_ plan, Napoleon. First of all, you must try to get Sabi out of here as soon as you can. Ms Bolt has something in mind for her that I would rather she doesn't have to go through, if you see what I mean'. Napoleon scratched his head.

'No, Illya, I don't see what you mean. To take Sabi out would be difficult and that would mean leaving you and Therese to somehow escape without help, which I think is highly unlikely bordering on impossible. Remember, you need to get clear of the house before the Indian boy wonder and his Spanish assistant get stuck in with your bag of tricks' Napoleon replied. 'So, what's the problem?'. Another long dark pause ensued. Fernando began to tap his watch, looking anxiously up at the dark face of the cliffs above. He had already been scouting round the bottom, and had found the securely attached ropes for them to climb.

'Um, well . . if you remember the original reason why we are all in this mess, namely Ms Bolt's wish to run the world with her modified female world leaders? Apparently, she slightly miscalculated the number required for total world domination, it appears, and of course she is very anxious to provide a future UNCLE head, as we know'. Napoleon's gut began to churn slightly as his brain leapt ahead of the Russian's explanation. 'So, it appears she requires one more high quality sample from a male, and . .'

'one high quality female to produce the goods' Napoleon finished. 'I get the idea' he added, then hesitated for a brief moment. 'I can see that puts you both in a very difficult situation, but . .'

'There's nothing you can do about it' Illya replied. Napoleon waited, despite Fernando's growing impatience. He knew there was still something else, something as bad as the information Illya had already shared, although he couldn't think that anything could be that bad. 'Um', the Russian started up again, 'then there's the small problem I'm having. I'm afraid I haven't been able to do any sort of reconnoitring of the area, due to the fact that Dr Engel has given me an early taste of the fruits of her research'. Napoleon stood up, suddenly unaware of Fernando, the cliff or anything else around him.

'What do you mean?'.

'She gave me something on the boat which apparently is experimental. I don't think they're quite ready to put it on the market yet. I'm afraid that I can't see anything at present' he said, rather softly.

'What d'you mean, you can't see anything?' Napoleon insisted, knowing exactly what he meant but just needing him to somehow confirm his worst fears.

'You know what I mean. I am totally blind, Napoleon. I'm within touching distance of Tess, but as far as being able to help myself or her, I may as well be a million miles away'.

Xxxxx

A faint light could just be seen, swinging to and fro, illuminating the jagged edges of the cliffs above them and making them appear somehow more menacing. Napoleon glanced across at Fernando, who was a couple of feet to his side and above him, nimbly scrambling from rock to crevice, occasionally turning and looking down at his partner below him. Napoleon, already digesting the implications of Illya's message, was suddenly reminded of his real partner. A choking sensation caused his chest to ache beyond that of exertion. He could picture Kuryakin on the cliff face, as they had been on numerous occasions, his pale face also looking down at Napoleon, sometimes grinning with the exhilaration the Russian often felt when climbing. By the time they were nearing the top, Napoleon had made up his mind, or nearly made up his mind what he should do. He had already felt powerless in this mission; he was not going to stand by and let his partner be led to the slaughter by those witches down there.

The images of the women flashed into his mind as he heaved himself up the last part of the cliffs. Jordan Lawrence, a blonde, true, but hard and cold; so different to the German blonde who now found herself in so much danger. Elena Fedorenko; where was she now? He thought of her the last time he had seen her, in the corridor at the mine, looking for her man. Then, Dr Engel. The thought of what havoc she might wreak on his partner turned his stomach. Completely insane people like her were some of the most dangerous enemies they had had to face; irrational, merciless, without any sense of morality or shred of humanity for their victim. She had been nursing an irrational hatred of Kuryakin since he had attacked her at the prison in East Germany; she had had a long time to plan her revenge. And Finally, Miss Bolt, certainly the cleverest of the quartet, and perhaps the woman who most personified evil amongst them. The others, in a sense, were following orders; she was the leader, the originator of this whole bizarre scheme.

Napoleon found Bolt's Amazonian, asexual thinking, personally deeply repugnant. Since being aware of the difference in the sexes, he had rejoiced in it; his friendships with other men, in particular Illya, had been satisfying and long-lasting, whilst the opposite sex had provided him with what felt like a never-ending source of both physical pleasure, and joy in their presence. Being married, far from being the tie he had persuaded himself it must be, had been the beginning of a whole new world. A picture of Jo rushed into his mind, erasing the other four women instantly, and at once filling his heart with joy and pain. While he very much wanted to help Illya rescue Therese, the imminent birth filled him with a sense of loss and sadness for himself and his wife. He wondered if she also would be hiding these same feelings when the baby was presented to its uncle and aunt.

For the time being, these thoughts had to be shoved down into his subconscious, as the light was getting very near, and Napoleon could see a dark figure lit up in its wake at the top of the cliff. Fernando had already reached the top, and was hauling his rope upwards, winding it into a great coil round his arm. Napoleon could see him chatting to the illuminated figure, now easily recognisable as a nun, her cloak, whipped by the night wind, streaming out behind her like a black sail against the moonlit sky. Fernando ran to the edge and helped haul Napoleon up and over. He stumbled slightly, before picking himself up and getting his breath back from the climb.

Fernando gently took the rope from him, giving him a chance to speak to what he assumed was the former UNCLE agent, and now religious, Sr Catherine. She was tall, practically his height, with a cheerful, open face. He felt she was appraising him, none the less, in a shrewd way that reminded him of the way Illya would look at people and then make some incisive comment about them.

'A good climb, Mr Solo' she began, a faint smile on her face. 'but you look pretty fit, I can see'. Somehow, the way she said _fit _sounded most un-nun like, Napoleon thought. He liked her for it. 'Obviously' she said, as they started to walk away from the cliff towards the Abbey, 'you can't stay with us girls, but there's plenty of room at our Chaplain's house, if you're happy with our basic hospitality'. Napoleon nodded.

'It's very kind of you to get involved, but I am concerned that your community will be dragged into this if they discover you are harbouring 'the enemy' as it were' he replied. They were reaching the walls of the convent now; Napoleon could see the tower of the convent church standing silently in the moonlight, waiting to ring out in defiance, it seemed, of what was being perpetrated elsewhere on this island.

'Don't worry about us' she said, 'you need to help your partner and his wife. Take it from me, it will need all of us, in whatever role we are to play, to overcome the forces of evil in that place'. Her face took on a sombre expression as she spoke, her eyes looking steadily into his. 'I am concerned about Therese Kuryakin' she continued. 'You need to factor into your rescue plan that their baby could be born at any time now, particularly with the incredible stress that she must have suffered at that woman's hands. Unfortunately, she was not allowed to visit the convent, but, through your very brave colleague's actions, we've been able to support her at least a little'. Napoleon frowned, wondering what she meant. Sr Catherine laughed softly, relieving the stress somewhat. 'Only spiritual support, I'm afraid, Mr Solo, but that's our job. Now, you need to concentrate on yours'.

Xxxxx

From the number of meals he had eaten alone, it was possible to work out what day it was, and roughly the time of day, even if he hadn't had Napoleon telling him at regular intervals. He had woken up the morning after arriving, rather stiff from sleeping on the straw, but more or less intact, he felt. The meals had been shoved into the pigsty room unceremoniously, the door slamming shut and the bolts shot with alarming speed. He had felt his way to the food, which was basic, bordering on prison rations, and devoured it quickly, before anyone changed their mind and took it away from him.

The device in his mouth was working pretty well, and he could hear Napoleon quite clearly, even with his mouth shut, which was as well, considering that he managed to transmit practically every time the food was being delivered. It was a relief to know that the two agents had scaled the cliffs and were now safely in the Priest's house at the Convent. Illya allowed himself a wry smile at the thought of his partner stuck in a priest's house in a convent. Not really Napoleon's style, he thought, but probably a lot more comfortable than his own present accommodation.

Napoleon had wanted to rush down to 'La Masia' to, as he said 'give you some support' but Illya had vetoed it immediately.

'There is absolutely no point in you ending up a prisoner as well' he had said, talking in the emptiness of the room, 'you are very near, near enough to make a heroic rescue attempt if I need you to. We don't want to panic Miss Bolt into making an abrupt exit, with my wife and baby in tow'. At the sound of the word 'baby' Napoleon winced. He was glad the Russian couldn't see him and pick up on it. Despite Solo's constant nanny-like worrying, Illya was comforted by the sound of the familiar voice playing like a personal radio in his head, particularly when he was lacking another sense. He wished it had been the sense of smell, he thought, as the inevitable reek of being imprisoned in a place like this with no bathroom facilities hit him, making his stomach turn slightly.

From the sound of the cockerel nearby, it must be early morning, Illya thought. The second morning he had spent here, and yet still without seeing Therese, not that he could actually see her at the moment, even if he was allowed to. He slowly opened his eyes, expecting the opacity which he had endured for the previous day and a half.

At first it was the same, a total darkness. Breakfast was delivered, rather early he thought, and then comparative silence was regained. As if on cue, radio Napoleon began to broadcast.

'Illya? Still inhabiting the high class accommodation provided for you by your charming hosts?'. There was the usual silence that Napoleon was used to, but this time it seemed a little longer. Napoleon waited patiently, trying not to say his partner's name again so many times. He heard a short gasp, then the Russian was speaking, rather fast.

'Napoleon. I do believe . . . I can . . .I'm beginning to . . .see!'.

'Are you sure?'. Illya scratched his head, smiling at the slightly asinine comment.

'Would you like me to describe my luxurious surroundings. Mm . . where shall I start? In the corner, there is a mound of …'

'Fine. I believe you, comrade' Napoleon quickly replied, a faint grin starting to illumine his face. He could see Fernando, lying in the narrow bed on the other side of the room, staring, then sitting up in response to the look on his new partner's face. Napoleon leaned back against the wall of the simple monastic room they were occupying. At least now his partner could see what was going to happen, even if he couldn't control it. 'Listen Illya' he continued, 'Fernando and I are going to trek down your way today, to hook up with our friends close at hand. We'll be working on the evacuation of the expectant ladies, unless we hear something unpleasant coming out of your mouth; in that case expect some support '.

Illya frowned. It was going to be difficult to alert Napoleon to imminent danger either to himself or others, when the communication was so one-sided, unless Sabi were there. Even if she was, it might be far too late for Napoleon to effect a rescue even if he was relatively close at hand.

'Napoleon, I am grateful for your concern, but you must concentrate on your end of the mission and leave me to do my job. I have Sabi to help me if I get into any unfortunate situations with my favourite doctor, and you really have enough to do, do you not, with getting the ladies to safety'. He smiled at the thought of Napoleon trying to shepherd what must be at least fifteen pregnant women out of their quarters and onto a boat before the inevitable explosions began to happen.

'Perhaps' Napoleon replied, 'but I have a bad feeling that your job might prove to be potentially more difficult, particularly since we have no idea, or almost no idea what is being cooked up for you, we don't know even if she will let you see Therese, and there is still the constant threat that our former colleague might just bump into our present colleague with the ensuing shit hitting the fan'.

Illya lay back in what remained of his straw bed and looked at the ceiling of the pigsty, now rapidly coming into focus as his eyes shook off the effects of the drug.

'Well, . . . .' he stopped in mid-sentence as he heard the locks on the outside of the door being undone. 'I have visitors, so you many find out the plans for my day if you keep listening in' he whispered, as the door was thrown open, and sunlight flooded the room.

CHAPTER 14

'Are you sure he's alright?' Therese asked, breaking off from packing the little bag that Sabi had given her. Sabi stood by the door, glancing down the corridor from the crack left open, and then back to the English girl making a neat pile of the tiny garments she had made on the bed in front of her.

'I haven't seen him darling, because your former guard seems to have been assigned to continue her former duties as it were' Sabi replied, 'but I heard that Dr Engel has given him some sort of drug to make him 'easier to handle' so they said'. Therese tugged at her short curly hair in frustration.

'Li has told me to meet her in the sitting room at two o'clock'. She wandered over to the window as she spoke, looking down towards the outbuildings and sheds that had housed the farm animals in former years. For the past few days she had been restricted to her room, or escorted to the clinic for examination by Engel. It was obvious that something was happening; Sabi had not been able to speak to her, and there seemed to be an increasing number of guards moving packages from building to building within the grounds of the farmhouse. She had even caught sight of the other girls who the guards referred to as 'the producers'. None of them looked beyond the early stages of pregnancy, but without exception they all seemed drawn and unhappy, huddling together like a flock of birds in the spring sunshine as they walked from the clinic back to their quarters. She wondered where the children were; were they also being hidden somewhere, or, more depressingly, were none of the twenty or so that had been kidnapped, still alive?

Therese had tried in vain to obtain any information from Li-Hua Bolt about Illya, beyond vague suggestions that there would be a meeting before she and Bolt left the island. She had put the clothes with their hidden devices at the back of the armoire to escape accidental detection by anyone who might happen to look when she was out of the room. Now she knew that he was here, Sabi had told her, but when she was to see him, and if they would be allowed any time together alone, was anyone's guess.

She was suddenly aware of two guards, standing outside one of the sheds, fiddling with the lock. They swung the door open and disappeared inside, at the same time as Therese finally realised who one of them was.

'Jordan is down there going into that shed' she said urgently to Sabi, who leapt off the bed and ran to the window, squeezing herself next to Therese's bump in the narrow space where window stood between the armoire and the sink. They were in time to see the occupant of the shed being brought out. Therese threw open the windows, and leant out to get a better view, in time to see the unmistakeable blond head turn towards her.

Illya was blinded again, but only momentarily this time, by the glare of the morning sun. He blinked wildly, unable to use his shackled hands to protect his eyes from the savage light. The sharp sound of a window frame creaking made him glance upwards as the two guards began to pull him along the gravel path. He stopped, digging his heels in to bring them to a temporary halt, so that he could focus on the window.

She was almost hanging out of the window opening, the slight wind blowing the unruly curls about her head. Even from this distance, he could see her anguished expression, the look of yearning washing across it, until some unseen hand dragged her back from the window, and other hands yanked him round and forced him along the path away from the house. As he was dragged away, an unmistakeable cry echoed from the house, carried towards him, then faded away, replaced by the crunching and crashing of the guards' feet on the gravel path.

Therese turned away from the window and fell into Sabi's arms, crushed by the sight of the person she had thought about at every waking moment since she had found herself here on the night of Napoleon and Jo's wedding. Sabi gently laid her onto the bed, stroking back the wild hair from the sobbing face. She could feel the piece of paper in her jacket pocket with the message she had dreaded written down, and which she now felt she must share with Therese.

'Tess; listen, darling, I have to go. I have a feeling that I will be heading for the same place as Illyusha, if this is anything to go by' she whispered. She drew out the paper and sat with her arm round Therese's shoulders. It seemed the ultimate cruelty to be sharing this now, but Sabi had made the decision when all this began, that she would not hide anything from her. She unfurled the paper, Therese, breathing more steadily now, catching hold of one end.

_To: Mercury_

_From: W Engel_

_Your tests have proved satisfactory on the highest level, and accordingly you will report to my clinic on Friday at 11.00 am precisely to commence insemination procedures. _

The two women stared at each other, then at the paper again, as if by looking at it, the brutal reality of it would somehow be lessened.

'I'm so sorry, Sabi' Therese murmured. Sabi shook her head and smiled. 'You're sorry?' she replied, '_Ach _Therese, I am sorry too, but for you and Blondie, _ja_? Not for me. Well', she continued, getting up, 'at least it will mean I will see if he is OK, and at least they cannot do anything to him whilst this is going on, although I am dreading to think how they will obtain the . . . the . .'

'Mmm' Therese replied. 'he's not going to take kindly to some butch number of a guard getting hold of him and . . ' she started to giggle a little, looking at Sabi, who had an expression of mock horror on her face, as only she could. They lay back on the bed together for a few minutes, before Sabi heaved herself up and headed towards the door.

'It is likely that Napolina will know what is going on because of the little tooth radio thing, but I think we have to rely on each other to get ourselves out of this mess, darling; you know, the three musketeers, eh?' Sabi said, smiling encouragingly. 'Now remember, be ready to go tomorrow, and I will make sure that this little package' she said, picking up the bag, 'is taken somewhere safe for future use'.

Xxxxxxx

The rooms which Illya was propelled toward, were part of a long block of buildings which housed the clinic, and was adjacent to the accommodation for the pregnant women brought to the island. Illya had the passing thought that they looked a little like holiday cottages, with their pan-tiled roofs and Mediterranean plants adorning them, but the similarity ended at the front door, of which there were several along the block. Jordan rang a bell and the door was swung open to reveal a sparse white interior, some kind of reception area to the medical facilities beyond.

Illya was aware that some of the medical staff were staring at him, not surprisingly he thought, considering what he must look like, and particularly, smell like. He stared back, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had bitten into them as he was dragged along the path. One of whom he presumed were nurses of some sort, disappeared and returned with a white towel and what looked like a surgical gown, which she thrust into the other guard's hand.

'Shower him, then bring him back to the examination room' she said tonelessly, indicating the way with a nod of her head. Normally, he would have welcomed the shower, but this time, the thought of somehow sharing it with Jordan didn't seem quite so appealing. He needed to somehow get through the day intact until he could either meet Therese or find where she was. Until then, there seemed little point in even trying to escape, even if he could, which was highly unlikely.

Jordan drew her gun and dug Illya in the ribs, a sneer forming on her wide, red lips.

'Hurry up before you foul up the whole area' she barked at him, pushing him down the corridor towards a door right at the end. Illya noticed that the doors along the corridor were all fitted with strong looking locks, giving them the feeling of cells, rather than hospital rooms. The end room was a bathroom, with a row of sinks, then a block of showers adjacent. The cubicles were quite large, with glass doors across the middle of each opening. The Shower heads, like large flat flowers, hung down from horizontal pipes running the water across the top of the cubicles.

The other guard, gun drawn, stood by the door as Illya moved forward to stand in front of the shower cubicles. He turned to face Jordan, holding his hands forward.

'I might find it a little difficult to have a shower with these on' Illya murmured. He could suddenly hear Napoleon's voice echoing round his head. 'Shh' he said without thinking. Jordan looked momentarily confused, then reached into her pocket for the key. In a rather loud voice, Illya continued 'I hope you won't mind turning your back, _Jordan, _while I clean up'. He could hear Napoleon's low snort and the word _shit _soundingrather more _sotto voce_ around his head now.

'It's Birch, Kuryakin, and yes I do mind where you're concerned' she answered, coming closer and pulling his hands towards her. 'Willow' she ordered, 'stand outside the door and keep your gun drawn. Don't come in unless I call you'. _Watch yourself, comrade_ echoed round Illya's head, as he grimaced while the handcuffs were being removed. Jordan stood back and waited, her gun waving up and down to indicate what he was to do next. Illya shrugged and began to take off his clothes and shoes, dropping them in a pile by his side, then turning away from her and pushing open the shower door, slamming it behind him to shut her out. Illya turned on the shower and stood underneath its full force, the water hammering against his head in a thunderous shower, washing his hair whilst Napoleon asked him in anxious terms where _she_ was.

'Stop worrying, Napoleon, I'm perfectly . .'. He was suddenly aware through the shampoo and soap that he was not alone in the cubicle. He spun round as quickly as he could, but not before he was pinned against the wall by Jordan, her body pressed up against his in what felt like a bizarre game of sardines. Illya groaned. This was beginning to feel like a re-run of the incident in the lift, this time a different woman, and with water. However, unlike the Ukrainian woman, Jordan's intentions seemed less violent. Illya leaned back against the shower, eyeing her cautiously, his mouth closed to avoid her hearing Napoleon insisting he tell him what was going on. With no clothes on, he could see how well developed she was, and why she was so strong. Keeping her arm across his shoulders, she reached for the sponge and started washing his face and neck, then across his chest and down. As she moved downwards he grabbed her arm.

'What is going on?' he said. They were now eye to eye, the water cascading between them. He slowly reached out and turned the water down to a more gentle stream. Jordan's face was now incredibly close. Illya could almost feel her breath on him, her green eyes boring into him.

'I could help you' she said, as he opened his mouth carefully to allow his partner to hear the conversation. 'You can't do anything for her now; Granite will never let them go. Leave her, Illya; we could get away from here together; we could be great together'. Illya shut his mouth rapidly as he heard Napoleon begin to snort with laughter. Somehow it wasn't quite so funny as his partner thought it was from the safety of his convent cell.

'Jordan' he replied gently, 'I am flattered, but somewhat surprised by your offer. I had the distinct impression that you found me somewhat less than attractive'. Jordan leaned forward and turned off the water, running her fingers through his wet hair and squeezing the water out.

'You grew on me' she said, pulling him towards her mouth and starting to kiss him brutally, her mouth feeling as if it was all over him. He twisted round and wrenched her off him, forcing her back against the side of the cubicle.

'Listen' he said sharply, holding her at bay, 'I am going to escape, but it will be with my wife and baby, and no-one else, Jordan. I'm sorry, perhaps things might have been different, but you must realise that Therese is the only woman in my life; she _is_ my life'. There was a pause, while they stood, frozen in their positions. At last she struggled free, and gave Illya a stinging slap across the face that momentarily unbalanced him. He pushed past her and handed her the towel, before walking to the door and politely knocking, getting the desired response from the other guard outside.

'I wonder, could you get us another towel; I've had to give your colleague mine'. The other girl stared at him, then past the Russian towards the wet figure rapidly drying herself behind him. A few moments later she returned, accompanied by the nurse. Jordan, now completely dressed, grabbed the towel and threw it in his direction, slamming the door shut in the faces of her surprised colleagues.

'You Russian cretin' she screamed at him, as he calmly dried himself, 'they'll be all over me like a rash now, wanting to know what was going on in here'. Illya rubbed himself with the dry towel and started to put on the hospital gown, cringing at the many, and usually bad, memories associated with such garments. He looked up innocently at her, her face red with rage and frustration.

'Jordan', he said quietly, I'm sure you can make something up to convince them that it was all my fault. After all, you have a large capacity for self-delusion'. She strode over to him, snatching the handcuffs from her pocket and wrenching his hands forwards to put them on.

'You think you're so smart, humiliating me, choosing that fat slut over me' she hissed. 'You just have no idea what that Nazi fruitcake has planned for you, have you? I tell you, Illya dear, just enjoy your masculine superiority for today, lover, because it'll be the last day you do. Come tomorrow, it won't really matter whether it's me or the lovely Therese you wanted to fuck, because you won't want to any more'.

Napoleon switched off his communicator and sat on the bed. He could hear Jordan's harsh tones threatening his partner with the kind of surgery that made him want to throw up in the tiny sink in the corner of the room. However, he couldn't sit here all day listening in to what was happening to Illya; the sense of helplessness that was growing in him while he hid up here was being inflated to epic proportions by doing just that. He needed to formulate a clear plan that would give Illya a cast iron guarantee of not being mutilated by that 'Nazi fruitcake' as Jordan had so aptly described her. He had been taken aback by Jordan's behaviour with Illya; it seemed that on this mission, the girls were throwing themselves at the Russian from all sides, while he, the one with the little green book, now long since thrown in the trash can, was left alone. He thought back to the night in the back of the lorry as the UNCLE girls attempted to revive Kuryakin, of the Ukrainian woman's attack on him in the lift, and now this. He must have lost his touch.

Fernando had left the room a while ago, so Napoleon wandered down in search of him. There were only a limited number of places he could be; the cliff face was a little too exposed to the binoculars of any Bolt girls doing a circuit of the coast, and likewise the area outside the convent walls. He must have taken a walk in the garden or be in the church, Solo concluded.

He found him sitting towards the front of the church, his head bent downwards, hands over his face, whilst he lent his elbows on the back of the rush-seated chair in the row in front. Napoleon eased himself into the adjacent seat and sat there for a while, not disturbing the still figure next to him. Even his sketchy boyhood knowledge of the Church year reminded him that this was a special day. Good Friday. The normally simple church was even more stripped out, the altar a bare expanse of wood, nude of cloths or ornament, the building undecorated, waiting. After the Good Friday liturgy, he remembered, everything lay untouched, until the flaming of the Easter fire on Saturday evening, announced that He had risen. He wondered what Jo would say if she could see him sitting here. He had gone against his better judgement and tried to contact her at work yesterday, but mysteriously, she hadn't been available. His brow creased with working out just where she was.

Fernando looked up and smiled, rather wearily, Napoleon thought.

'OK?' Napoleon said simply.

'I'm doing something I haven't done for a long time' he said. 'I'm praying for my sis'. Napoleon was moved by the simple statement uttered by the other agent. Nobody had thought very much about him being affected by what had happened to Therese, although Illya had not been enthusiastic about him coming with so little experience. Now it boiled down to this; the McCaffery family looking out for each other. Practically. Spiritually. Napoleon could instantly see his wife scrubbing away at Illya to get all that shit off him on that terrible night after the camp fiasco, and also Gabi telling them all what to do to help him. Somehow it felt that their lives, his and Illya's had been so immeasurably deepened by their connection to this family, that their previous existence, however good, seemed shallow in comparison.

'I think we need to move down to the farmhouse tonight' he stated calmly, trying not to sound more worked up than he felt. 'We can hide in the house Vaz and Torres are living in, and then make final plans there. From what I've just heard, we cannot afford to get the timing of this operation wrong at all, understand?' Fernando looked a little alarmed, obviously wondering what Solo knew that he didn't. 'It appears', Napoleon continued, that after the event we unfortunately can't intervene on, namely the procreation of 'The baby from UNCLE' with our two esteemed colleagues as mom and dad, Dr Engel intends to recreate our Russian friend as the robot from UNCLE'.

'What!' Fernando almost shouted, trying to tone down his voice in the echoing church, 'What, like a sort of . . .'.

'Lobotomy? Something like. I think the idea is to save the intellect but remove the emotions, including of course,' he added 'any interest in the opposite sex. You need to understand that we are not dealing with anyone here who is acting like a normal doctor, Fernando. God, he hates doctors as it is, I can't imagine what he's going to be like after all this'.

'Well I don't want to imagine what he's going to look like after she starts in with making him look like the Mekon' Fernando said, his face so stricken and the image of the cartoon character so vivid, that all of a sudden they both began to smile, despite themselves. Napoleon got up, feeling a little calmer suddenly.

'I'm going to go and speak to the estimable Sister Catherine, then as soon as it gets dark, we'll gather our stuff and head out' he said. I have a feeling that Illya and Tess might finally get it together this afternoon, so I'll try him later and catch up'.

'Well watch you pick the right time' Fernando replied, a mordant look sweeping his face; 'you wouldn't want to interrupt anything, would you, especially in the light of what you've just told me'.

'Don't' Napoleon replied.

Xxxxxxx

Sabi peered in through the window of the examination room before she opened the door, not wishing to find herself face to face with Jordan Lawrence anytime soon. She could see that Dr Engel was busying herself at the counter beyond the two couches that were laid out ready to receive their occupants in the near future. The room was quite large, but not equipped for more complicated surgical procedures; that room was beyond Engel's laboratory, which was adjacent to the place she was now staring into. There was also a small bathroom and toilet leading off the examination room; perhaps by some miracle she could get Illya in there for a chat before anything else happened.

As Sabi hesitated by the door, she heard the crunch of gravel from around the back of the building. She froze; there was no way in which she could avoid whoever was coming her way now. In seconds, they were standing next to her; Illya, amusingly dressed in a surgical gown, and the guard called Willow, who stared at Sabi, before opening the door. They had obviously taken him to the showers, for he looked scrubbed clean, apart from the three-day stubble on his face. They stood quite close while the doors opened; he looked steadily at her, then she felt her hand being squeezed before he was pulled inside, Sabi following behind.

Winnifred Engel spun round, her round glasses glinting.

'Good morning Mr Kuryakin. I hope you haven't had too uncomfortable a stay up until now, but you'll be pleased to know I have prepared some special accommodation for you from now on, which I think you will find _cleaner_'.

'How kind' Illya replied, thinking she must have a hygiene fetish from the way she singled out the adjective, and by the obsessive use of her hands. He remembered the weird circling movements from before. Now he could see that she seemed to be eternally cleaning up or arranging things. She came over and walked round him, his eyes following her as much as he could. He frowned as she pulled back the gown and revealed his body, the guard Willow smirking at the sight by his side.

'Sit on the bed, won't you, Mr Kuryakin' she said, rather unexpectedly. He was ready to be strapped down at any minute, and had already noticed the fixings at the side ready to prevent any possible escape. He sat down gingerly on the side of the bed, his legs swinging free, feeling like a five year old waiting for his latest vaccination. This was definitely the biggest down side of being an UNCLE agent, Illya thought, the combination of torture and injury. However, he did have a wonderful nurse at home now, which made up for it, at least in part. Thinking of Therese made him think of Sabi and the now potentially serious situation they both found themselves in. She was standing there watching him, her beautiful blue-grey eyes sad with strain, he thought. He had tried not to think about the possible consequences of what was going to happen in the next few minutes, until he had the chance to speak to Therese, but he was sure Sabi would have discussed it with her. Illya realised that he had begun to rely on his wife to sort out these family decisions, and he was sure once the baby was born, he would rely on her even more. However, this was no ordinary family decision.

His thoughts were disturbed by Dr Engel's harsh voice, now commanding Sabi to change into an equally dreadful gown. Illya looked round the room. He hoped they were going to provide him with another set of clothes after this; otherwise escape tomorrow was going to be tricky bordering on embarrassing. The thought of tomorrow suddenly filled his mind. He realised he was trying to submerge the gruesome implications of what Jordan had told him in the showers, and he was sure that Napoleon had been equally appalled by what he had heard. Still, that was tomorrow; today had to be got through first.

Sabi undressed in the little bathroom, coming back into the examination area wearing an identical gown to Illya's. He raised his eyebrows imperceptibly, as she sat on the side of the other couch, the two agents facing each other like blue eyed, blond twins. She hadn't seen him for several months, and noticed his physique, what looked like fairly recent scars on his arms and legs, and of course, the partially grown-out, but still fairly severe haircut. She put her hand on her head, signalling to him her amazement. He mouthed back the words 'it's a long story' to her, as Dr Engel turned round from the counter.

She glanced at Sabi and then turned towards Illya, pushing him back onto the couch and nodding to a nurse who was standing behind her, to clamp the restraints in place. Sabi found it hard not to breathe inwardly rather hard, at which the doctor turned.

'I'm afraid we have to do this to him' she said, indicating Illya with her thumb. 'How much do you know about him?'. Sabi was slightly taken aback by the question, but managed to control her expression in time, although she could see Illya grinning behind her.

'I'd heard he was highly dangerous; a ruthless killer in fact' Sabi said in shocked terms. 'I suppose that is to be expected from one of his race'. Illya was now pulling a terrible face, making it extremely difficult for her to respond appropriately. She glared at him, Dr Engel mistaking her expression for one of disdain.

'_Ja_, _naturlich fur ein untermensch' _she spat out. 'But we have to accept that despite that, he has a great intelligence, something which Granite thinks is worth breeding from, _nicht wahr_? Sabi could see that Engel was looking at her closely, her gaze penetrating through the round lens of her glasses towards her countrywoman. Sabi licked her lips, looking down to avoid her stare.

'Excuse me' Illya interrupted, seeing a difficult situation emerging and trying to distract the doctor from her appraisal of his colleague. 'If you want something from me, I won't be able to give it you in this position, I can assure you'. Engel swivelled towards him. Sabi saw him direct his worst stare towards the Nazi doctor; it was now her turn to pull faces behind Dr Engel, watching Illya in full 'Siberian' mode, as she had often referred to his now fully frozen expression. She could see he was drawing the danger away from her onto himself, with all the inherent risks that act involved.

'He has a point, Winnifred'. None of them had noticed the door opening as the two agents sparred with the Nazi doctor. Li-Hua Bolt stood in the doorway, contemplating the scene. Illya breathed in sharply, directing a venomous look towards Bolt. She walked over, ignoring Sabi and heading straight for the Russian. 'Good morning' she said, not even using his name. She looked up at Dr Engel. 'See, I said you would have him, Winnifred, but before you start making your little improvements, we need a sample of genetic material from Mercury here to create the THRUSH ultimate weapon against UNCLE'. She ran her hand along Illya's brow, and then stroked his hair back. 'You're right, Winnifred' she continued, 'even close up he's really quite pretty, even with this' she added, running her hand down his chin. 'He'll make a useful laboratory assistant, I'm sure, and you'll have the satisfaction of him being so eminently controllable'.

She lent over, her feline face close to Illya's. 'Cooperate now or I will call off your final meeting with Storm' she murmured into his ear. 'Remember, I still can control her, and I aim to carry on controlling her long after we consign you to the back of a lab somewhere. I'm sure you can live out your days doing something useful for Bolt pharmaceuticals, watching your daughter grow up to become a world leader. Of course . .' she added, a sneer seeping across her face, 'I mean a THRUSH' world leader'.

'Can we get to the real point of this morning's gathering?' Illya replied acidly, ignoring everything else she had said. 'As I said to our charming doctor here, you will have difficulty extracting anything from me in this position, and I'm certainly not able to help you with these on'. He indicated the restraints, holding his hands down each side of the bed. Bolt stepped back, and signalled to the nurse standing behind Illya's examination couch.

'Take them off. Perhaps Mercury here could assist with the procedure' she added. Sabi virtually flew off her bed and came across the room, a look of teutonic superiority chiselled on her face.

'Be assured, _Fraulein doktor _that I will not allow him to take advantage of me in any way' she almost shouted, virtually dragging Illya off the bed towards the bathroom. Dr Engel stepped back, thrusting a specimen jar in Sabi's hand.

'Be very careful, Mercury' she whispered, 'he is a brute when he is desperate'. Sabi nodded, her eyes wide, and retreated into the bathroom, pulling the Russian after her. 'Please make sure Willow stands guard, in case he decides not to cooperate' she added, as she slammed the door behind them.

As soon as the door was closed, Sabi stood with her head against the wall, eyes closed.

'Oh, _Gott in himmel_! she exclaimed, pulling Illya towards her. 'I didn't think we'd be able to persuade them to let us come in here, Illyusha, that's a statement!'. Illya pulled back slightly, beginning to smile; 'I think you mean 'that's a fact' Sabi' he said quietly, indicating the door. 'Well it's a fact that we are in a very difficult situation and it appears that unless we cooperate, your life will be in danger, and I will never see Tessy again'. Sabi pulled him down so that they sat on the floor together.

'Darling, we don't have a choice' she murmured. 'You must get to see Therese; I must remain free to help you escape, and if necessary, assist the boys to destroy this place and its dreadful laboratories, and also save the girls and their babies from the hands of those women' she added. 'And, most important Illyusha, I cannot allow you to be touched by her, I cannot' Sabi said, stroking Illya's hair gently. She turned away, a faint smile illuminating her elegant face. 'I cannot imagine what people are going to make of this back in New York, if' she added, 'if, you know . .'

'Yes, Sabi' Illya replied, 'I know'. He held out his hand for the specimen pot.

xxxxxxxx

Therese pushed open the door of the large sitting room, the room where she had first realised she was here on this island, a prisoner. She had spent the best part of an hour trying to make herself look as good as she could, bearing in mind she had little choice of anything to wear, no make-up, and her hair was just a slightly grown out mass of curls, which she expected to lose at any time, the way Bolt had been looking at her recently. Still, what did it matter, as long as they were together again, she thought. She hadn't been able to see him very well from the window, but he looked a little different from the man she had left behind at the wedding. But what did that matter either? Whatever he looked like; to have him in her arms again, to touch him and to feel him touch her, that was what mattered; the rest was superficial, irrelevant.

Another blonde interrupted her gaze. Jordan Lawrence stood by the window, looking inwards as Therese came towards her. Tess remembered the episode in the water, Jordan screaming for her colleague as she swum back to shore. She was glad in a sense, that Jordan was here, because that meant she was not with Illya. And Illya would have been with Sabi.

'Jordan', Therese said, walking to the large sofa and sitting down with difficulty. She was determined not to use those names, however many times they told her. She lay back against the cushions and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the woman who had betrayed them both so comprehensively, whom she knew was now lurking behind her. Without warning, Jordan grabbed her hair and pulled it back violently, jerking Therese's head backwards and holding it as she leaned over her.

'What does he see in you?' she jeered, holding Therese's arms down. 'Still, when the good doctor's finished with him, he won't give you a second glance, eh, mommy?'. Tess was too concerned with extricating herself from Jordan's grip to fully take in what she was saying. Jordan's strength and Tess's bulk made it next to impossible for her to escape the American's grip. Her neck was beginning to throb, and it was becoming difficult to breathe. Tess felt the beginnings of panic rising in her chest. She tried to slide down on the sofa, but Jordan lent over and yanked her back up with her arm. Tess began to feel faint, the room swaying in front of her eyes, swimming away.

'Move away or I will kill you'. Tess fell forward, her head aching from the wrenching of her hair. She looked up. Her husband stood in front of her; then he was kneeling down, and she was holding his head in her arms and weeping. She could hear raised voices shouting behind her, but they were irrelevant to the sensation of him; his hair; his smell, his warmth. She could hear him demanding his hands were freed, and startlingly, getting his way. Then his arms were around hers, stroking her aching head, his deeper, calm voice, calming her. Eventually, Therese raised her head. Serious blue eyes gazed into hers, the familiar face a picture of concern.

'It's alright now, don't cry, it's alright'. Illya kept his arm round her, which was as well, since Tess could feel his rage building in the tenseness of his body. Li-Hua Bolt had drawn a gun from her jacket and was pointing it at Jordan, who was pressed against the window of the room behind the sofa. The two Kuryakins sat silently on the sofa, caught between Bolt and Jordan, the other guard rigid behind the tall figure holding the gun.

'I would have thought that what happened to Fedorenko would be enough to make you think twice before you touched her' Bolt was saying, but she replaced her gun in the holster slung at the side of her trousers, staring at the two sitting down as she did, and beckoning to Jordan. 'But, unlike her, you have shown yourself to be an intelligent and loyal member of this family, so I'm willing to overlook your little 'attack' on Storm. Besides, I've decided to reinstate you in your former position'. Jordan looked puzzled, then a sly smile crept across her face. 'Yes', Bolt continued, 'I want you to resume your guard duties for dear Storm, as UNCLE so obligingly engaged you. Now, take her upstairs while I talk to _him_ for a little while'.

The two women watched while Illya helped Therese to get up. He hadn't really looked at her properly since he had been virtually thrown into the room to witness her being wrenched back over the sofa by their former colleague. He could hardly take in the change in her appearance; she seemed huge compared to what she was like at Christmas, and he felt suddenly sad that these final months of their life together before the baby was born had been taken from them, never to be returned. Jordan strutted over, now seemingly recovered from any fears of retribution she may have harboured, and grabbed Therese's arm, but not before her own arm had been gripped, vice-like by Illya, Therese wedged between them as they locked eyes across her.

'Touch her again and I won't be as generous as your present employer' he said, his voice chilling the air between them. Jordan's eyes glittered for a few seconds, as she struggled to twist out of his grasp.

'Let them go, because your time with Storm is ticking by'. Bolt said, standing watching, seemingly fascinated by the interplay between the three people in front of her. Illya slowly released his grip on Jordan's arm, giving his wife a look filled with longing, and, she thought, deep pain.

'Don't be long, _Corazon, _she murmured, her hand brushing the soft beard along his jaw; Illya groaned at the thought of yet another separation, however brief. He sat back down on the sofa, wriggling a little in the rather tight black jeans and t-shirt that he had been given after the procedure that morning. For once, he hoped that Napoleon would tune in; the trauma of the morning was making it difficult to contemplate tomorrow with equanimity, and he needed to know that there was going to be support and that the support would arrive on time. Cuts and braises, broken bones, even the head injuries he had sustained just a few months ago, paled into insignificance compared with the mutilation planned for him by Engel.

Bolt glided over to the sofa and sat down in one fluid movement that made Illya feel uncomfortable being close to her. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, leaning back against the rigid sofa. The upholstery felt utterly different to the comforting green antique sofa far away in his own sitting room, its unyielding stiffness making it feel as if it was determined people shouldn't feel too comfortable sitting on it.

'Can we get on with whatever you have to say to me' Illya began coldly, 'I have a date I'd rather like to keep'. He opened his eyes to find Bolt's serpentine gaze boring into him.

'I thought you might like to know of a little breakthrough we've had in our laboratories' she hissed, her eyes riveted to his. 'After all, you are, let's say, an 'interested party' in our research'. Illya knew she was going to tell him whatever he said. He edged away from her slightly and glanced at the large modern clock on the wall.

'Are you referring to your mind-controlling drugs, or something even more unpleasant that you want me to try?' he replied, trying to sound less interested than he really was.

'Oh no, nothing to do with our new development; you'll find out all about that tomorrow' she murmured, continuing to hold his gaze. 'This is about Dormiben'. She leant forward slightly towards Illya, her eyes now only reptilian slits of dark green in her flat, expressionless face. 'As you know so well, when Storm goes into labour, the chemicals released in her body will act as an antidote to the drug, and effectively release her from any control I might have over her' she began.

'Yes, I did appreciate that' Illya answered, lying further back with his eyes closed, avoiding her gaze.

'You might have wondered why we didn't bring forward the birth before now' Bolt said. Illya nodded imperceptibly. He had, at times frantically wondered exactly that. 'Your stupid attempt to discover our plans in Germany meant that there was some delay in production and testing, but our chemists have worked selflessly to perfect that will certainly be, shall we say, the 'market leader in mind control' she said, with a derisive laugh. 'Once the child is delivered, the new drug can be administered. Only this time' she said, her voice developing a rather snarling tone as she drew closer to Illya, 'there will be no antidote. This drug will permanently alter the recipient's brain; in effect, it will be possible to mould someone to the will of the one administering the treatment. In short, Mr Kuryakin, Storm, and also the child, will be mine, permanently'.

Illya's eyelids opened fractionally.

'Can I go now?' he said, not moving or looking in her direction. Bolt exhaled loudly and sprang to her feet; Illya could hear her walking over to the door, and the harsh tone of her voice as she spoke to the guard in the corridor.

The guard called Willow entered the room as Illya stood up, anxiously glancing from the glaring Bolt to the unreadable face of the slight blond man standing looking at her. Illya shrugged his shoulders and offered his hands for the usual handcuffs, feeling that Bolt didn't seem to have quite finished with him yet. She came up behind him, walking round him slowly as Illya was roughly held in the grip of the guard.

'Oh, by the way, we really must have a name for you if you're going to stay with us' Bolt said acidly, grasping Illya's chin and forcing him to look at her. 'I suppose it should be something suggestive of those cold blue eyes, shouldn't it?'. She signalled Willow with a quick flick of her hand. 'Please take Ocean to see Storm, and inform Birch that he is to be returned to Dr Engel's keeping in exactly two hours. Oh, Ocean' she added, ignoring the deeply frigid stare directed towards her, 'you might have wondered where your former girlfriend was all this time. No doubt you'll be pleased to know that you'll be reunited later. But don't be frightened when you see her, will you? She's just a little reminder to the others of the cost of displeasing me'.

CHAPTER 15

Jordan was nowhere to be seen when Illya reached the door to Therese's bedroom. He had mentally photographed the corridors and rooms they had passed for future reference, although he hoped that he wouldn't need to rescue her from this rather remote part of the house.

He held out his arms for the handcuffs to be removed, giving Willow an annoyed glare when she hesitated. She glanced down the corridor rather uncertainly, before slowly drawing the key from the pocket of her trousers.

'Don't try anything, otherwise you'll have a very short visit' she said, her voice squeaking with anxiety. 'I'm sure Birch will be back any minute, see?'. Illya sighed impatiently, thrusting his arms out towards her.

'Do you seriously imagine I want to 'try anything', other than opening that door, going through it, and leaving you this side?' he almost shouted at her in exasperation. She jumped slightly and then, with shaking hands, unlocked the cuffs. Illya wrenched them off, then with a very curt 'thank you' opened the door gently and shut it quickly behind him.

She was lying very still on the bed. He quickly realised that she was asleep, her tired face turned towards him, tiny curls framing her head on the pillow. Illya moved silently towards her, and began to take off the few clothes he'd been given, dropping them by the side of the bed in a small black pile. The bed was what he'd heard Napoleon once describe as a 'cosy double'; larger than a single but much narrower than the bed he had miserably occupied at home after he had returned from his sojourn at the UNCLE section house, and the horrors of the camp.

He gently pulled back the covers and slipped in behind her, pushing his body gently into hers, his face into the mass of little curls that had shocked him so much when he had seen her for the first time that afternoon. He felt her quiver with the realisation of his presence, and then turn, her face so near to his that their eyes seemed almost touching.

'Hello' Illya said gently, smiling, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. Therese turned round fully, bringing her arms up round his head, and gave him a long, tender, passionate kiss, her hands stroking and rubbing his hair until it stood on end all over the top of his head. He could feel the bulk of the baby between them, and with delight, the tiny kicks rippling through her abdomen onto his.

Eventually, Therese withdrew her lips from his and stared at him.

'You feel different; you're all hard, I mean, more than normal, and . . . what have you done to your hair?' she whispered in his ear, a little smile lighting up her face.

'Um, well . .'. Before he could come up with something that would sound remotely plausible, she started to pull at his shoulder, turning him onto his front, and running her hand across his neck and shoulders.

'You've got some explaining to do, Illya Kuryakin, and after you've made up an excuse about that haircut, you can tell me about these' she murmured, fingering the five burn marks on Illya's neck which he hoped would have disappeared by the time she'd be close enough to notice. She ran her fingers gently round his exposed ears, following them with her lips, until he couldn't bear it any more, and turned back, gently turning Therese so that he could envelope her with his embrace from behind.

He hesitated for a few moments, until she drew his arms round her, and murmured 'what are you waiting for' as he lifted his body up and into her, his head thrust over her shoulders, taking in, with wonder, the sensation of being one with her body again. The agony and frustration of the weeks without her slid away like a old discarded skin, until he lay back, suffused with joy, this little episode, this brief time together, a steady light in the middle of a dark, disturbing sea surrounding them.

Therese lay on her back and looked down at the blond head finding his accustomed place on her body.

'They're different'.

'Well spotted, Doctor Spock. Now, much as I hate to break up the party, I need to show you a few things, and also, I've got something else Sabi gave me for you, but you'll have to be good while I put it on'. Illya sat up and looked down at the girl lying on the bed, her breasts swollen, the nipples huge and dark in the shadows of the late afternoon. With a superhuman effort, he glanced at the tiny clock by her bedside, forcing himself to sit upright, and then swing his legs over to stand up.

'Put what on?' he asked, as he forced himself to put his clothes back on. Before she could answer, another voice had exploded into the quietness of the room.

'Am I interrupting anything?'. Illya raised his eyebrows and heaved a sigh, watching, with regret, Therese clambering into the dreary black trousers and top that he was determined would be thrown into the nearest dustbin as soon as they got away from this place.

'Your timing is, for once, quite reasonable' Illya grumbled. Before he could continue, Therese had come up to him, and held his mouth open while she spoke.

'Your timing is not reasonable' she almost shouted down Illya's throat, 'go away for another ten minutes until I've shown him a few things and then painted his nails' she said wickedly, laughing at Illya's expression. There was a momentary silence.

'Gee, and I thought I knew all the tricks of the bedroom' came the reply; 'have fun, children, Uncle Napoleon will tune in very soon, so make sure whatever you're up to is finished and you're nice and calm, comrade, to hear about our little plan to make sure you won't be mistaken for Robby the robot'.

'Thank you Napoleon; now, as they say in Liverpool, _do one_, won't you please?' Illya replied, still not quite sure what on earth Therese had been talking about. She seemed to be scrabbling around under the mattress for a few moments, coming out with what looked remarkably similar to a bottle of clear nail varnish.

'Yes, you heard right' Therese said, pulling him towards the little table and chair that stood at the other end of the room. 'This is a sort of nail varnish, but unlike any you're likely to buy at your local drugstore'. She pushed him down on the chair and laid out his hands on the table, the long fingers splayed out fan-like on the wooden surface. 'Now, don't move, because unlike real nail varnish, this has a rather interesting reaction to surfaces other than human flesh' she whispered, glancing over at the door. Illya pursed his lips, watching as she carefully painted the oval nails with the clear liquid.

'You're beginning to sound like those guys down in Section 10' he murmured. 'Anyway, what is the 'interesting reaction' you so interestingly referred to a moment ago?'. Therese looked at him and resisted a strong impulse to put the bottle down and kiss him.

'Well, the 'guys' in Section whatever, thought you might need a little helping hand to break free, and seeing that you'll probably be minus everything, and you like doing all this blowing up sort of thing, they came up with this' Therese replied, waving the bottle about alarmingly, Illya thought. 'I can't demonstrate it, because that will bring Jordan thundering in, but, if you just sort of roll it off your nail . .' she demonstrated with her finger and thumb, smiling rather conspiratorially, 'and then just stick it on something, apparently, in about five seconds, it will cause a nice little explosion' Therese ended, slapping her hands together enthusiastically. Illya went to take the bottle from her, but she forced his hands back on the table.

'No! don't move for another few minutes, otherwise we'll have mini-explosions all over the place!' Therese gasped. She moved behind Illya, putting the bottle back on the table, and began to stroke the rather tangled hair on top of his head, then bringing her hands down to gently massage his shoulders.

'Now, _amado, _while I've got you pinned down as it were, perhaps you can tell me a few things you've been so obviously keeping from me' Therese murmured in his ear. Illya exhaled deeply, making a mental list of what she was going to mention, and which might come first.

'And what _things_ might you mean, Teresita?' he replied, his voice low and rich in the darkening room. She continued to work her fingers into his neck and shoulders, his head slightly drooping with the pleasure of it.

'Well, let's start with what you think Dr Engel is planning for you tomorrow, and then you can tell me what Li-Hua wanted to tell you after I came back up here'.

Illya sighed deeply. He had hoped that he might have been able to distract her by talking about his hair for a considerable time, but of course she had prioritised her list and that had obviously come at the bottom, under amusing, but unimportant stories. He squirmed under her patient waiting, for once torn between trotting out the usual 'top secret' excuse and a feeling that she had a right to know about events which could completely alter their lives.

'Well, as you must have heard both Napoleon and Jordan referring to it, I'm afraid the not so good Doctor has plans for me that will result in what the guys at UNCLE have been trying to achieve for a long time' Illya replied, getting up from the table, and taking Therese back to the bed. They lay on top together, pulling the pillows around them for comfort.

'What, you being tidy, or well-dressed, or getting a haircut more than every six months? . . .'

'Very funny' Illya replied, putting his arm round her enormously expanded waist. 'Anyway, you've done that without the need for a frontal lobotomy. No, Dr Engel would like to make a permanent change to my personality of an entirely more depressing type; I'm afraid I'm destined to become a clever, but emotionless laboratory robot, carrying out the orders of Bolt Pharmaceuticals' . Therese drew his head towards her and held him close, his beard gently tickling her face.

'Do anything you have to, to stop her' she murmured. 'What she is planning is hideous and cruel'. They lay together for a while, as if the idea of what had been spoken about needed to pass through their minds and fade away, before they spoke again.

After a while, Therese pushed herself off the bed, and opened the doors of the armoire, pulling out an identical black outfit from its wide shelves. She laid it on the bed, putting an ugly black choker necklace on top, similar to the one worn by Bolt, which reminded Illya of the sort of collar that large, aggressive dogs wore, the type of dogs which loved to have his neck between their jaws. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, and sat watching her as she arranged the garments on the bed.

'Now pay attention, Ruskie, because if I'm under the spell of the wicked witch tomorrow, you may have to help yourself' Therese said, picking up the collar. Illya cringed at her comment. After she had showed him the various items, he drew her down to sit by his side. He looked into her trusting eyes for a few seconds, before dropping his own in an intense examination of his hands. She touched his chin, turning his face in her direction.

'Now tell me what she said to you' she said quietly.

A sharp clunk against the shutter at the side of the window interrupted the awkward silence that had suddenly taken hold of them. Therese ran across to the window and leaned out. Illya was taken by surprise by the speed which she moved across the room, and followed her, squeezing in by her side to look out of the window, his arm round her shoulders, fingers in her abundant curls.

Sabi was standing below. They could see that she was supervising the removal of some cartons from the laboratories to several flat-bedded trucks that were parked at the end of the road leading to the port area. Illya wondered why on earth Sabi had made such an effort to draw their attention to what was going on, until something about the men made him smile. Therese gasped as a familiar face smiled up at her from underneath a broad straw hat.

'Nando' she murmured, looking excitedly at Illya.

'Mm' he replied. If Fernando was there, he thought, then . . .. He looked closely at the other men. A rather scruffy looking individual wearing a dark blue bandanna tied round his head glanced up. He seemed to have something up his sleeve, and had brought the end of it up to his mouth. Illya nudged Therese, indicating where she should look. She began to chuckle softly, her golden brown eyes slightly glinting in the setting sun. Immediately, the scruffy individual's voice echoed in his head.

'Didn't your mother teach you it was rude to stare?'. Illya grinned.

'I'm glad to see that you're earning your keep at least' he replied.

'Get away from the window now, or I'll take you to Engel with a hole in your leg'. Illya could feel Therese instantly freeze, then shudder violently at his side. He turned round slowly, clasping Therese's hand firmly. Jordan had entered the room so silently that even Illya had not been aware of her. He cursed himself for letting his guard down so easily. He could hear Napoleon in his head, the reassuringly familiar tones relating the story of their journey to the Bolt estate, asking after his wife, making crude jokes at his expense. When he thought there might be a gap in Napoleon's narrative, he spoke, loudly and deliberately.

'Good evening Jordan, we were just taking in the view'. A loud 'shit' reverberated round his mouth, followed by silence. Jordan indicated with her gun and, pushing them away, she glanced out at the exact time as Sabi came round the corner, looking directly up at the window. Illya felt as if an electric current had passed between the woman staring out of the window and the one beneath. The name, _Klose, _escaped from Jordan's lips in a thin, low screech.

Pushing Therese back hard onto the bed, Illya leapt at Jordan, the gun flying across the room before dropping to the floor and skidding under the armoire with a clunk as it hit the wall. He felt her fingernails clawing at him, tearing the t-shirt across his chest. They rolled across the floor, kicking and grunting, Therese frozen on the bed, fear constricting her throat into a hoarse low-pitched scream. Jordan punched hard at Illya's face, and he could feel blood starting to run down from his cheek and lips. He was pinned underneath her while she rained down blows onto his head. His eye was now closing, but before she could do further damage, with a great heave, he forced her off, rolled over, and smashed his fist up under her chin. He felt her snap back with the power of the punch, and, as she rolled over, he chopped the back of her neck, her lifeless body instantly silenced by the blow.

Illya staggered up to a standing position, blood now pouring across his face from open cuts around his eye and cheek. He could hear the insistent voice of his partner asking him what was going on, but as the room started to spin slightly, he found it difficult to explain. He could feel Therese's arms round him, dragging him backwards onto the bed, then gently opening his mouth and speaking; low urgent words.

Sabi moved rapidly across towards Napoleon and waved her gun at him, while she whispered urgently that something was terribly wrong in the room where the two familiar faces had only just been staring at them with such amusement.

'Come with me now, Napoleon; I will have to make up some excuse if we meet anyone. Keep your face down and let me do the talking, OK?'. She had seen Jordan's face framed in the window, and could only guess what might have happened next. They moved towards a small door leading into the house, Napoleon following in a submissive way, head down, making sidelong glances as they rushed up the stairs towards the bedrooms on the top floor.

Therese had managed to get the door open and stood there signalling to them. Napoleon realised that he hadn't seen her since the night of his wedding, and instantly a picture of her as she was then, in the beautiful blue dress, her long hair swirling round her head, smiling and kissing her husband, presented itself to him. The girl standing in the doorway was almost unrecognisable in comparison.

Sabi held Therese's hand in a natural gesture of female support, whilst Napoleon shut the door behind them. He could see immediately that Jordan was dead, her head set at a crazy angle to her body, her arms and legs splayed out, as if she was in the act of running. The Russian lay still on the bed, his head a blood-soaked mess of oozing wounds, starting to stain the sheets below him.

'See if you can find something to clean up his face a little, while we think up what we're going to do with her' he said quietly, coming over to Illya, and feeling the pulse in his neck. He could hear Sabi and Therese tearing a sheet behind him, as he stared at the figure on the bed. Illya's face was suffused with blood, and Solo could see that there were going to be some serious damage to the delicate features. His hair and beard were caked with dark red-brown drying blood, his left eye completely closed and swollen, the eyelid a dark shade of purple. His partly open mouth revealed a bloody mess within, an early trip to the dentist almost certainly indicated, Napoleon thought.

Therese gently squeezed in beside him and began to carefully wipe the blood from her husband's battered face, murmuring words to him in a language which Napoleon recognised as the Catalan he had heard spoken on these islands.

'Napolina, you must go. There is nowhere for us to hide her body without you being seen, and it is essential that you stay free, darling'. Napoleon turned to the German agent, who was standing near Jordan's body, looking down at her with a barely disguised expression of contempt.

'Just what have you got in mind?' he whispered, his back to the couple behind him. Sabi drew him away from them, towards the door.

'Don't whisper behind my back, I know what you're up to'. Therese had left Illya for a few moments and came up to them, separating them by her sheer size. She looked down at the splayed out figure on the floor and then knelt down by her side.

'What are you doing?' Sabi said incredulously, as Therese moved her hand towards Jordan's head. When she looked up, Therese's head was bathed in the light from the window, but it was the compassionate expression on her face that struck Sabi so forcefully. She placed her delicate hand over the dead agent's face, and slowly closed her eyes, before heaving herself to her feet.

'She attacked me this afternoon, and Li saw her' Therese began. 'Tell Li that she tried again, and Illya, well, you can see what happened' she said, walking back to the stricken body on the bed. As she continued to bathe his head, Therese turned towards them, a determined look spreading across her face. 'Of course' she continued, 'one of you will have to make it look as if she had a go at me'. The two agents looked at each other aghast, Sabi shaking her head. 'Sabi, you have to do it' Therese pleaded, sitting on the bed next to Illya, who had started to make a few low groans as she mopped away at his head.

Napoleon turned away slightly towards Sabi. 'She's perfectly right of course' he murmured. 'Otherwise it's going to look as if he attacked her without reason, or even worse, because she had seen something or someone he didn't want her to tell anyone about'. Sabi nodded fiercely.

'Stand near her' she murmured, 'I don't want her falling and hurting herself even more'. Sabi sighed, putting her gun into her holster. 'I'm just glad that Blondie can't see what I'm about to do'. She walked across to the bed with Napoleon, the two agents standing either side of the bent figure now trying to remove the blood from Illya's hair.

'Therese' Sabi said quietly. As Therese straightened and turned towards her, Sabi brought her hand up and gave the smaller woman a hard slap, harder than she had intended. Therese was thrown backwards and to the side, catching her head on the edge of the bed head before Napoleon could break her fall, and eliciting a loud groan from the figure on the bed. '_Oh mein Gott!' _Sabi cried, pulling Therese towards her and covering her with kisses.

'It's fine, I'm fine, just a little . . . groggy' Therese said, starting to sway rather alarmingly. Napoleon grabbed her from behind and lifted her up, laying her next to the moaning figure of his injured partner. The curls on the top of her head were matted with blood, and a very obvious handprint was emblazoned over her face.

'Just what is going on?'. Kuryakin's rather indistinct voice cut through the chaos of the last few moments, throwing the other two agents into another panic. Napoleon knelt down by the side of the Russian's head.

'Illya, listen; can you hear me?'. A slight groan and faint nod of the head affirmed his question. 'I have to go now; Um, I'm afraid we've had to set the scene as it were, for Miss Bolt to believe that the lovely Jordan had a swing at your girl and you leapt to her defence'. He could see the Russian's brow contract and the befuddled mind gradually absorb what had been related to him.

'You mean, that you've _hit_ Tess?' he managed to say through the rapidly swelling bruised lips. Napoleon involuntarily backed away a little, as Illya slowly turned his head towards him. His one good eye gave the American a hard stare then turned back towards his wife.

'See you tomorrow then' he said simply. 'Make sure that you get the girls away safely, and Vaz doesn't leave anything standing, right? That must come first'. His hand searched for Napoleon, pulling him nearer to the still face. 'And listen' Illya whispered, struggling to form the words, 'promise me that, if things don't go entirely to your plan, that you take Tess, even if it means leaving me . . . with them'. Napoleon grimaced at the image forming in his mind. 'Tell Vaz that he is to make sure _all_ the buildings are blown up, do you understand?'. Napoleon felt the iron grip of the hand on his arm.

'Yes, I promise. But it won't come to that' he replied tersely, squeezing the Russian's hand. Illya closed his good eye and became still again.

Sabi came round the other side of the bed, checking to see if Therese was conscious.

'I'll take you down, then set off the alarm' she said. 'I expect that Miss Bolt will come, and the doctor too'. Napoleon looked round the room. It resembled what he hoped Li-Hua Bolt would believe it was; a scene of utter chaos, where there had been a struggle to the death. He only hoped that Illya's injuries did not prevent him from making his escape, together with his wife, before any further damage was sustained.

They left the room quietly, getting downstairs as rapidly as they had come. Napoleon slipped out of the back door and melted back into the group of workers manhandling the boxes onto the trucks. As he went to lift a large brown box onto his shoulders, he felt his arm being grabbed.

'Everything tickety-boo?' He put down the box and pulled Vaz to the side of one of the low buildings ranged around the Bolt Estate. The Indian agent pulled back his hat and stared at Solo.

'Are you and Torres ready?' Napoleon asked rather sharply. Vaz nodded, catching the mood of the American agent. Napoleon leaned against the side of the building, glancing across in case a guard might come their way.

'Jordan is dead' Napoleon said baldly, Fernandez blinking slightly at the news. 'She saw Sabi, and Illya had to do something otherwise this whole elaborate charade we've set up would've come crashing round our proverbial asses'. Vaz nodded silently.

'Is he in one piece?' he added, running his hand through his thick hair, which was now tied back in a very un-Vaz like pony tail, giving him the appearance of a rather scruffy pirate.

'Sort of' Napoleon replied. 'She gave him a good beating round the face, so I think he'll be spending a few sessions with Mr Garwood in Dental'.

'Remind me to be out of the country when that's going on' Vaz smirked, his alarmingly white teeth glowing in the shadow of the building. 'So, has our Russian comrade sent me any last minute instructions?' Vaz continued, knowing Illya's almost fanatical attention to detail where explosives were concerned.

'As a matter of fact he did' Napoleon replied. 'He said that you're to make sure that nothing is left standing'. Vaz squinted, his dark expressive face noting the seriousness of Napoleon's manner.

'I presume you mean by that, old man, that if our colleague is not out of the building by the time I press the trigger . . .'

'Just press the trigger' Napoleon said. 'And he will be'.

The allusion of a Mediterranean retreat was brutally shattered by the piercing alarm sounding in the house. Solo and Vaz looked at each other and quickly returned to the area round the trucks, where the other men helping load equipment were situated. Napoleon could see Fernando looking rather anxiously at him, with Torres whispering something in his ear, no doubt to prevent him from looking as frightened as he did at that moment.

Several guards appeared, some running towards the house, and others signalling and shouting to them to stop packing and take the trucks back to the port area.

'That'll suit Fernando and I' Vaz murmured, 'We need to finish off a few little additions to the shipping order at the warehouse'. Napoleon nodded and started to move slowly towards the other two men, gently slipping in between the upturned faces of the others staring at the upstairs window of the farmhouse, where they could hear some commotion pouring out of the open window.

The others were lifting the last of the boxes onto the waiting trucks and jumping up, some of the men sitting on the boxes, looking slightly uneasily at each other, as the strident noise of the alarm reverberated over the buildings.

'Diego, is the boat ready for embarkation?' Solo whispered hurriedly, coming from behind the Spanish agent. Torres didn't react at all to the familiar voice, but continued to stare up at the window like the others.

'Naturally. There are several of the crew who would like to 'jump ship' as it were, with _las nĩnas _when we round them up tomorrow morning'. He rubbed his hands together, and Napoleon could imagine what he was thinking about the mission to round up the pregnant women and herd them onto the boat. He motioned to Torres and they discreetly disappeared down the side of one of the laboratory buildings, from where most of the packing cases had been coming from, heading for the relative safety of the gardener's accommodation, a tiny cottage which Vaz and Torres had been living in for the last few weeks. As they walked, for the first time in many years, Napoleon prayed, hard.

xxxxxx

For a few moments, until the alarm sounded, the couple on the bed lay together in exhausted silence. Then Therese rolled over and heaved herself off the bed, walking round, and taking another strip of material to wipe the blood from her husband's face. He opened the eye he could use, and watched her as she attempted to remove some of the bloody mess from his mouth. She put her finger in and gently felt round his teeth and gums.

'There's a couple loose and some cracked ones I think' she whispered, cringing at the look of him lying there.

'Listen' Illya replied, 'Jordan made a pass at me in the shower before I came up to see you. Tell Bolt that she attacked you because of me. That other guard saw it and will support your story. Don't worry about what Sabi says; it's better to stick to something nearer to the truth, leaving out the vital bit of information that is'. He tried to smile, but it was too painful.

'Alright, but I hope she believes me' Therese whispered, 'and I hope they're going to patch you up before they try anything else. You don't look very pretty at the moment, _cheri'. _Illya grunted, feeling his mouth with his tongue. Astonishingly, the radio tooth was still intact, but the other side of his mouth felt as if someone had just stood on it. Mercifully, his jaw appeared intact, and the other facial injuries were hopefully superficial. He sat up gingerly, as Therese rammed a pillow behind his head to support him. He took her hand gently and made her sit on the edge of the bed. His head, already pounding from the fight with Jordan, reverberated to the sound of the alarm, but he forced himself to concentrate and collect his scrambled thoughts.

'Tess, before tomorrow we need to discuss something'. Therese looked sharply at him, momentarily suspending her mopping of his face.

'What?'

'The name.'

'What name?' Illya glared at her as hard as his face would allow it.

'The baby's name' he sighed. Therese smiled at the battered face looking at her so intensely.

'Oh, that name. I thought we'd decided on Olga or Boris, or rather, your colleagues had decided' Therese continued. She wondered at herself. Here she was, joking about something that she had thought of night and day for months, with a dead body lying on the floor, her husband, beaten to a pulp on the bed, and just about to be horrifically mutilated by a sadistic pervert at the instigation of someone who had every intention of stealing their baby. The last months had changed her; she recognised it now, and accepted that this was the price of loving the man on the bed. She leaned over and kissed the bruised and bleeding lips. 'Go on then' she murmured, 'tell me'. She turned her head slightly as he whispered faintly into her ear, watching a smile slowly wash over her face, as she very gently kissed him again.

The alarm suddenly stopped, leaving them staring at the figure of Li-Hua Bolt in the doorway, a gaggle of guards with looks ranging from fear to amazement spread across their faces standing behind her, all of them caught in a frozen scene of love, violence and death. Bolt walked straight past Jordan's body and went up to Therese, grabbing her face and turning it from side to side to survey the damage. Despite his injuries, Illya wanted to knock her hand away, hating the crude display of ownership. She let go of Therese and began to look at the Russian.

'Granite, you can see it's as I said; Birch attacked her and he defended her. I think she had an attraction for Storm and when she rejected her, this is what she did'. Sabi stood at the end of the bed, in full Aryan mode, her grey eyes cold and haughty.

'Be quiet. Is this true, my Storm?' Bolt murmured, her eyes drilling into Therese, with a laser-like intensity. Therese looked at Illya, and then turned towards Bolt, her hand trailing behind her to grasp his hand.

'No it's not. She doesn't know anything. She thinks because she's probably carrying his child that she knows him, but she doesn't.' Sabi raised her eyebrows and gave Therese a hard, almost vicious look. The British girl stared back, a combatitive look on her face that Sabi had never seen before, and wondered at. 'It's not me that Jordan wanted, it's Illya' she said, indicating him with her head. 'We thought it was me when we were in New York with her, but since I came here, she's made my life a misery; she attacked me when I was in the sea, and you saw yourself what she did to me today. And she tried it on with Illya in the shower before we met. Ask that other guard if you don't believe me, ask Illya, if he can talk after what she's done to him'.

Bolt glanced up from her perusal of Illya. She signalled to the guards to remove the body and then turned back to gaze at him again.

'Well, Ocean, it looks as if she gave you a few good punches before you got the better of her' she said, looking at him in a pitying, merciless way. 'Mercury, arrange for him to be sent to medical to get this cleaned up' she ordered, indicating his face; 'I'm sure Dr Rondeau will be able to mend him sufficiently before tomorrow's procedure'. She parted Therese's hair to see the wound in her head, pulling her fingers through the petite curls, before she brought her face close to her own.

You need a little attention too, Storm. Mercury here will take you over to Medical. I think you should stay there tonight in case there are any complications. After all, we don't want anything to happen to Diamond'. Bolt straightened, then turned and strode from the room, walking past the dead body of Jordan as if she had been an inconvenient obstacle in her path. Therese watched the remaining guards surround the body and lift her up between them, carrying her out in silence, the only noise the scrape of their boots against the rough wood of the floor.

'Diamond! Did you hear that? And she's given you a stupid name as well, Illyusha! What a divvy! And just who is Dr Rondeau when she's at home?!'. Therese's scouse accent was in full flow as she exploded, jumping up and grabbing the black outfit she had been showing Illya from the end of the bed.

'You were _wunderbar _darling, I was frightened of you, you looked so fierce!' Sabi cooed, helping Therese to take off her identical, but less armed, black outfit, and substitute it with the other one. Illya edged himself gently to the side of the bed and put his feet on the floor. The room swam round him a little, and then righted itself. He watched his wife putting on the hated black clothes. By a large degree of good fortune, combined with Tess's pluck, the fiasco with Jordan had resulted in her being moved to the right place for any chance of escape. Without her clothes on, and standing in front of him, she looked absolutely huge he thought; surely there could only be a few days until the baby would be born. She managed to get the top on, and then came and sat next to him to put on the trousers, lying back on the bed to pull them up, eliciting a painful smile from her husband.

'Don't laugh at me; you have no idea how difficult it is to do this with what feels like a football rammed between my legs' she puffed. 'And I still want to know who Dr Rondeau is'.

'Apparently, she is a plastic surgeon, so she may be able to help you, Illyusha'. Illya looked up, his brows contracted. 'Dr Engel is a brain surgeon, Illya; Sabi made her usual over-dramatic facial expressions as she talked, making Therese smile despite herself. 'Apparently, so one of those frightful nurses told me, she is a close friend of Miss Bolt's and she has worked in your neck of the forests, Illyusha'. Illya grimaced, painfully.

'Neck of the _woods_, Sabi' he sighed. 'Presumably, you mean, that she's worked in the Soviet Union?'.

'_Nein_, darling. I think she was in Paris'. Illya breathed in deeply and stood upright, holding on to Sabi, as they moved towards the door. _Rondeau_. There was only one person it could be, but he couldn't for the life of him think what she should be doing here. He sighed inwardly. He stopped for a moment and motioned to Therese to come close.

'Listen, Tess' he gasped, painfully. 'Tomorrow, hopefully, Napoleon's little scheme will result in enough chaos for us to get away and down to the port in time to catch the boat out of here. However, it is essential that you stay in medical long enough, and don't let them bring you back here'. Therese put her hand on his lips.

'Don't talk any more, it's too painful. I know what to do. There's one thing that will definitely ensure I stay down there, isn't there, and you've probably brought it on a little with your amorous attentions, anyway'. Illya frowned and then smiled, as much as he could without wincing at the same time.

'Oh, I see. Well let's hope little Diamond doesn't make an appearance too soon' Illya said archly.

'Of course, Ocean dear' Therese answered, as they slowly left the room.

CHAPTER 16

A sharp knock on the window alerted Napoleon that Sabi was outside. Torres was lying on the small red sofa in the tiny sitting area, his hat over his face, as Solo crossed the room to open the door. He could see beyond the tall figure of the German agent to the vegetable garden beyond, and to the medical buildings beyond that. Fernando and Vaz had used the general chaos of the alarm to slip down to the port and hide in the warehouse, waiting for darkness to complete their preparations for the morning. Sabi glanced round, and then slipped into the tiny cottage, shutting the door quickly behind her. Torres stood up, throwing the hat down on the floor, and then dragging a small table into the middle of the room. Napoleon leaned out of the window and brought the shutters to, making doubly sure that there would be no witnesses to their meeting.

Sabi sat down with a sigh, her long legs stretching out underneath the table. Torres slammed down a large bottle of water and some glasses on the table, and they all took their places, in companionable conspiracy.

'What's the score with the happy couple?' Napoleon began, sipping water gratefully, the exertions of moving the boxes finally having their effect.

'They are both in the Medical area now. Dr Rondeau is going to deal with Illyusha and Therese tonight, so that they can get on with his operation tomorrow. I think that they're waiting until the baby is born before they leave, so Dr Engel has time to amuse herself playing with Blondie's brain in the meantime'. Napoleon scratched his head, staring at Sabi, his lips puckered up in confusion.

'Have I missed something here, or have we another doctor on the scene?'.

'_Ja voll_, Napolina. She is a friend of Miss Bolt's, although I don't think 'friend' in the way we would think of it, darling. I think that she must be working for THRUSH somewhere, and Bolt has invited her here, which is good for Illyusha, because his face has been badly beaten by that _ubele_ _hexe_ Jordan. I think she's going to repair Tess's head too'. She put her hands to her face, shaking it from side to side. 'I feel so bad about that, Napoleon; I am hoping that Blondie will forgive me when he is better'.

'I somehow think that 'Blondie' will feel he has a great deal to thank you for, Sabi' Napoleon replied, smiling at the earnest face of the German. 'Now, down to tomorrow'. Torres brought over several pieces of paper and some pencils, and began to write a long, detailed schedule, the times listed carefully at the side, Sabi leaning over his shoulder, drawing little maps at the side of the writing.

Napoleon sat back, thinking about the second doctor. It was seriously frustrating that he could not contact New York, or any UNCLE office for that matter, to discover more about the mysterious Dr Rondeau. He wondered whether Illya knew her, and whether he felt as pleased as Sabi that she would be patching him up. He considered whether or not to try to contact the Russian, but decided to wait until the chance of the said doctor being in the middle of her work might be less likely.

'Sabi' he murmured, pushing his chair back and standing up, 'Am I right in thinking that the communications centre on this place is in one of these cottages?'. Sabi nodded, and her eyes suddenly widened at the look on both Solo's and Torres' faces.

'Oh no boys, that would be _very_ dangerous!' she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, checking her watch before going towards the door. Napoleon rubbed the side of his face thoughtfully.

'I don't know about you, Diego, but I'm feeling a little bit bored with all this hanging around' he said, a grin lighting up his face. 'Now, we don't want to draw any attention to ourselves, but if we could kinda restore satellite communication, then I've got one or two little sideshows I think we could organise, to deflect the girls attention away, yeah? And then, we might be able to find out who the charming French doctor is, who is, I imagine, at this moment, trying to make our comrade a little bit better looking'.

'That would not be possible' Sabi said.

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Illya lay on the table in what appeared to be a room looking far more like an operating theatre than the treatment room he had previously been taken to. It was extremely well furnished, as far as he could tell, with the latest surgical equipment, including, to his alarm, a large sterile tray of particularly unpleasant scalpels which had been placed near to his head. In the background, he could hear the sound of water running, and distant voices talking. He strained to hear what language was being used, but his thoughts were still muddled by the force of Jordan's assault on him, and their voices distorted by the sound of the water.

Eventually, through his one good eye, Illya caught sight of several gowned figures approaching the table. He stiffened in apprehension of what might come. He had already endured the far from gentle ministrations of the Bolt nurses, who had cleaned off the dried blood from his face and hair, and worse, from the inside of his mouth, with ruthless efficiency and little tenderness, shaving his face regardless of the deep cuts which were opened again by the razor's action. He spotted one of the nurses coming round the table to stand next to the sterile tray, beginning to count the instruments, and to thread several needles with suture material. Suddenly, he was dazzled by the thud of the theatre lights coming on above him, and a voice he recognised, ordering the nurses to stand back while she made an initial examination.

'Marie-Laure?' he choked, his mouth feeling as if someone had torn it apart and shoved it together again. The brown eyes above the surgical mask flashed a warning to him, then came closer, gloved fingers very gently feeling round his face.

'_N'ai pas peur _Illy'. He took a few deep breaths through his nose and tried to unscramble the thoughts ricocheting round his head like cars on a track. Frantically, he tried to look at her more closely, his eye aching with the effort.

Marie-Laure. She was Marie-Laure Colbert when he knew her. His tired brain instantly threw images of her in front of his eyes; Marie-Laure with Sacre-Coeur looming up behind her like a ghost on a particularly foggy day in Montmartre; Marie-Laure lying on the grass by the Seine on a red hot day after final exams, running her hand through his hair while he tried to read some scientific journal. He shuddered at himself as he was then; so rigid in his attitudes; so focused on his work he hardly even noticed her attentions, never mind responding to them. Illy. That was what she had called him. _Mon beau Illy. _Well, he wasn't very beautiful now. And what on earth was she doing here?

She drew back slightly, and he could see her drawing up several syringes. She came forward again and leant over him, the scent of her perfume invading his senses, as the memories of her flooded back. Had he betrayed her in some way? Was she now going to wreak havoc on his face before the other so-called doctor wreaked havoc in his brain? He began to pant slightly with the thought of it all. She turned to the nurse next to her, waving her away with a little toss of her head and hand.

'Please leave me; I prefer to work alone, and besides, he is not so badly injured that I need help to make him presentable, _n'est-ce pas_?'. The nurse shrugged and stepped back. Illya heard the swish of the door as she left, leaving them alone.

Before he could summon the effort to speak, she had put her finger on his damaged lips and bent over him.

'_Ne parle pas, Illy' _she murmured, 'don't speak, because we may only have a few moments before she comes back'. She picked up one of the syringes and began to inject the liquid round his eye and cheek, with a touch so gentle that he could hardly feel the prick of the needle in his skin. 'Listen' she continued, 'whatever I say, remember that you can trust me, _cheri_, but you must not let me down, as you did before, _non_?'. He gazed back at her, struggling to make sense of what she was saying. She picked up the suture material and leaned over him. 'You have some quite deep cuts round your eye and mouth, but I will make sure the scars are _minuscule'._

She began to work on his face, making tiny stitches round his eye, then working on his lip and cheek.

'I can't do much with your teeth, _cheri_', she said, as she examined his mouth. 'You will have to visit the dentist, I think'. He was suddenly aware of another figure standing the other side of the table.

'I can see why they value you at Central, Marie-Laure, but you really don't have to take that much trouble with Ocean here' came a familiar voice. 'By tomorrow evening, he won't care what he looks like, will you?'. Illya glared as much as his face would allow him to. It was difficult to speak or even move his anaesthetised face, but he managed to stutter 'Therese?' before sinking back, Marie-Laure now examining his hairline, picking up some tiny scissors from the sterile tray.

'Therese?' she said, looking at Bolt.

'Storm', my partner' she replied, with a look of barely concealed conceit on her face; 'the producer of our daughter Diamond'. Illya felt Marie-Laure's tiny hand holding his head down as she looked back at his face. He wasn't sure, but he thought he read contempt there, but for whom? She gazed into his eyes and then looked up as Bolt spoke again.

'She has a head injury, as I mentioned. We will prepare her head if you could suture the wound'.

'That won't be necessary' Marie-Laure countered, glancing at Illya. 'I have some experimental material I can use, which, unless the wound is very deep, won't necessitate removing the hair'. She looked down at the man on the table, seeing the stricken face softening, at her words, into an expression she had never been able to elicit from him, not even in their most intimate moments together.

Bolt walked away, talking into a transmitter, the outer door banging behind her.

'Thank you'. Marie-Laure lifted up the hair on his forehead again, to look at the wound lying right on the hairline.

'Mm. I hope she is worth your love, Illy' she said, starting to snip the hair close to his scalp. 'Now, unlike your lover, your wound is too deep to glue, so I have to cut a little. _Excusez-moi, cheri.'_

_'Pas de tout, Laurie'. _She paused, blowing the cut hair away, moved by the old name. As she anaesthetised the area, she looked closely at him again, eyes taking in the battered, but fine features, and the body below them. She picked up the suture material and began to put in a fine line of tiny stitches into the wound snaking along his hairline.

'You've been looking after yourself I can see, Illy, but what became of the golden mane I helped you grow? Your wife not approve?'. He pursed his lips as images of Therese passed across his eyes.

'That was a long time ago, Laurie'. He could see himself at the beginning of that year in Paris. He had literally come off a ship in Odessa days before the term began. He could see her now, a tiny slip of a girl asking him what prison he had just been let out of, and his stiff, formal response; 'I am a Russian Naval Officer'. He cringed at the thought of himself then, but she had thought it thrilling, mysterious, and the more he had tried to shrug her off, the more she had pursued him. In the end he had given in, and she had begun to work on him; the hair, a shaven shadow on his head then, becoming the 'mane' she was now describing. He realised now that, besides the new look, Marie-Laure had changed him in so many other ways too. But she had wanted a commitment he was not ready to make. At the end of the year he had gone to Cambridge, promising to keep in touch. Mid-way through the first term he had heard through a friend that she had married Phillipe Rondeau, a plastic surgeon working in the Medical faculty at Paris-Sud Université. Even now he couldn't believe she'd married such a man. He had made the decision then not to contact her. They had both made their choice. Now, here she was, an obviously first-rate surgeon, and also an employee of THRUSH. He frowned, with difficulty, at the thought.

Then Marie-Laure had finished, putting the remaining suture material back on the tray, and inspecting his face closely, her dark eyes checking and approving her own work. Illya knew it was pointless trying to engage her in conversation; whatever was going on she was not about to share it with him, and besides that, he could hardly move a muscle on his face, let alone chat to this woman. She applied some dressings onto the deeper cuts and began to bandage his head, lifting it up and gently wedging it under her arm as she wound the dressing round with deft movements of her hands. She laid his head down again and then came up very close, gazing at him with tenderness and regret.

'Illy, I have to go now. _Bon chance, mon brave'_. Before he could attempt to make any sort of response she had left the room, and the Bolt nurses had instantly reappeared, removing the restraints holding him to the table. He struggled, turning his head to see who was making such a meal of taking off the restraint on his other hand.

It was next to impossible not to shudder at the person standing there. However plain Elena Fedorenko had been in the past, she was infinitely preferable to the horror that stared at him now. Her face looked as if a meat slicer had gone through the middle of it, leaving a wide red scar winding through from her scalp to her neck. One eye had been lost in the cut, now a sightless hole in the side of her head; her cheek and lips had been laid open, and had healed, by the look of it, without sutures, leaving ugly wide scars. Her only feature untouched was her nose, which seemed to stand out unnaturally on her face now, in contrast to the devastation round it. Illya closed his eyes momentarily. Despite their somewhat stormy relationship, he felt intensely sorry for this ghastly disfigured soul standing like a statue in front of him.

'Elena?' he whispered gently. He thought of his wife, how she would behave towards this woman, how compassionate she would be. The Ukrainian opened her mouth to speak, but all Illya could hear were deep, garbled sounds coming from her throat. He stared at her intensely, his gut churning at the reason for the strange utterances. Then he could see. Her tongue had been severed, only a pink, flapping stump remaining inside her mouth. He looked away from her and down to his hand. The reason she was struggling to release him was now evident. The middle finger on each hand had been removed, leaving both hands horrifically symmetrical.

With his undamaged eye he looked up into her one remaining eye. 'I'm so sorry' he managed, trying to stop himself looking away at the sight of her. She leaned over him and brought her hand up so that he stiffened and turned away, expecting a blow. He felt instead, her remaining fingers softly running down his undamaged cheek, and a single tear drop run down the side of his face, before she straightened and turned away, standing back as he was helped off the table by the nurses.

He could sense that she was behind him all the way back to his room, and he wondered what her role now was, except to frighten to death any other employee who might entertain the possibility of disobedience. He noticed that she was armed with a pistol, but whether she could shoot accurately remained to be seen.

She came into the room behind the nurses and, using her gun, indicated he was to get on the bed.

'Have a nice rest, Ocean' the nastier of the two nurses sneered; 'we'll be back later to feed you if you can manage it; then of course, it's nil by mouth from midnight ready for your surgery' she added, a vicious smile cracking her thin lips. Illya turned his head away from them and attempted to face the wall. If this was to be his last evening in his own mind, he preferred to spend it not looking at them. As he turned his head, he caught sight of Elena, leaving the room, and the petrified faces of the nurses as she passed. As the door closed, the lights dimmed momentarily, then returned to their normal glare. Illya shrugged, and then closed his eyes.

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Napoleon slowly unscrewed the silencer of his PPK and stuck the gun back into his holster. The two guards lay in a tangled heap where they had slid off their chairs and somehow entangled themselves in each other, their heads locked together like two furry balls. He came over and pushed them slightly. _Ugly _he thought, looking at them, an adjective he didn't usually use when looking at fit young women like these.

Sabi had closed the blinds to any outside view, and she proceeded to drag the girls towards the far wall, while Napoleon stared at the radio controls in front of him. He could have done with the Russian here, he thought, but Sabi came over and seemed to know what she was doing.

'It's very simple' she murmured, 'one of the girls you just took out showed me last week. It's just a matter of turning this switch' she leaned over and flicked a large black switch on the console, 'then re-configuring here'. She sat down on one of the chairs and seemed to be turning a dial, and flicking switches. The lights dipped momentarily, causing her to pause, but then she shrugged and continued. 'Now, try with the communicator' she urged, looking at Napoleon. 'And be quick, Napolina, because we need to be out of here very quickly. The guard will change in the morning, but they'll be wondering why they haven't come for anything to eat soon enough'.

Napoleon wrenched off the top of his communicator and spoke into it.

'Open Channel PX please, top priority'. It seemed rather pointless using this channel now, since Jordan was now out of the way, but it saved Waverly lecturing him when they spoke.

'Mr Solo, this is a surprise. I presume that you have disabled the jamming mechanism since we're now able to communicate with you?'

'Ah, Yes sir. A number of things have come up, as it were, that might affect the outcome of the mission, so I thought it was worth the risk to restore communications'.

'Quite so. Well, you'd better give me your report. What has happened to Mr Kuryakin?' Napoleon smiled. The old man definitely had a soft spot for his partner, he was sure of it.

'Well sir, he's sustained a few minor injuries at the hands of Miss Lawrence, but you'll be glad to know that he has dealt with that problem, and, as far as we know, Miss Klose has not been compromised'.

'Good. Nothing too serious, I hope?'

'No, I don't think so; however, he seems to be under the care of another doctor from THRUSH central it seems. Her name is Marie-Laure Rondeau. I was wondering . . .'

'Mr Solo, is the transmitter in Mr Kuryakin's tooth still functioning?'. Napoleon was taken aback by the abrupt turn in the conversation, frowning at the communicator as if Waverly could see his reaction.

'Er, yes, as far as I know. I imagine he's finished in surgery now'.

'Good. I will speak to Mr Kuryakin directly. You had better return to wherever you are and make sure that everything goes smoothly tomorrow morning. Waverly out'.

Napoleon closed the communicator and leant against the desk of the communications console.

'He obviously doesn't want you to know whatever he is going to talk to Blondie about' Sabi murmured, taking the guns off the guards and emptying the shells out of them. 'Perhaps it is private, darling; you know, something he will need to tell you later' she suggested.

'Not another woman coming out of his closet' Napoleon grumbled; 'they seem to be throwing themselves at him, mainly with rather unpleasant consequences'. Sabi came over and put her arm round his shoulders.

'Well, this one sounds as if she will be nice to him, eh?' she said.

'Mm. Well if she is, he'd better have a good story for Tess, otherwise he might get another black eye to add to the one Jordan so generously gave him'.

Napoleon went back to the console, and sat down on the chair, swivelling his communicator again. 'Now, before we go, _Mercury_, we need to just set up a little something to keep the girls busy at the dock. Open Channel P; Palma please'.

Xxxxxxxxx

Therese stood behind the table of the treatment room, her back wedged against the units by the wall. The other side of the table, a short, stocky nurse stood, a pair of grey clippers in her hand. She knew that beyond Dr Engel's laboratory lay her operating theatre, and that in that theatre, her husband was being treated, but by whom, or how well, she wasn't entirely sure. She had been taken into here when they had virtually carried him into the theatre. At first, she was left alone while Illya was dealt with. The treatment room was too far away to hear anything, but all the rooms in this block had a corridor with glass windows, through which one could view the proceedings in each room, including a separated area for viewing operations in the theatre. Therese shuddered at the thought of what one might be able to watch the next day.

The blinds on the windows facing the corridor had been drawn back, however, and she was able to see who was going in and out of the theatre. Dr Engel had not appeared, surprisingly. It was a much more diminutive figure that walked along the corridor and into the outer room of the theatre, not glancing in her direction as she sat miserably on a chair by the side of the bed, her head throbbing with the pain of the fall in her room. A short while after that, the unmistakeable figure of Li-Hua strode along the corridor. She stopped momentarily, giving Therese an appraising look, as if she was looking over a piece of furniture she'd just purchased. Then she marched off, Therese knew where. It didn't seem very long before she was back, with one of the two nurses that had been in theatre. She came up to Therese, and looked at her for a while. Then she turned to the nurse.

'Dr Rondeau has ordered that her head is to be shaved. Please take care of it before she comes'. There was a hiatus in the room before she turned on her heel and walked away out of the door into the garden.

Therese tried to think through the pounding headache. She clenched her lips together as she watched the nurse go over to a trolley in the corner and return with the clippers, slamming the plug into the wall behind the chair Therese was sitting on. The nurse fetched a small sheet and put it round Therese, ignoring the shaking of her patient's shoulders and tying it roughly at her neck.

'Now sit still. You've got a lot of hair and it'll hurt if you fight me'. She put her hand on Therese's head and pushed it down, while the buzzing of the clippers sounded in her ears.

'No!' Therese pulled away and then brought her head right back towards the nurse, hitting her squarely in the jaw and causing the clippers to spin off onto the floor, lying there buzzing like a strange toy. Therese jumped up as quickly as she could and got round the other side of the bed before the nurse could grab her. She wrenched the cloth off her shoulders and threw it across the bed. 'You are not doing that! I've had it done twice now, and I don't like it!' she shouted at the astonished nurse. 'I'm growing it, see, 'cause that's the way _he_ likes it!' She jerked her thumb towards the theatre, her heart thundering in her chest and her back joining her head in a synchronised ache.

'_Qu'est-ce que se passe? Tiens, laisse-le!'. _The small gowned figure that had been heading for the theatre was now in the room, minus hat and mask. She had very dark brown eyes matched by very straight brown hair cut in a style which reminded Therese of her sister Jo. She was so unlike any of the other women Therese had met on the island, that she gasped in surprise, then felt herself wanting to cry.

'No, no tears, _chère_ Therese. _ C'est d'accord maintenant_'. The French surgeon turned to the nurse, who was picking up the articles scattered in the commotion. 'Go and get the tray from theatre that I put on the side. _Depechez-vous_! Hurry up! Gently taking her arm, she led Therese back to the chair.

'I'm sorry. I just didn't want to lose my hair again. It's just that . . everything is being taken from me, it was just the last straw; I just couldn't . .' Therese hung her head and found that the other woman was holding her, stroking the wild hair. She knelt down, so that Therese could see her, looking up into her face.

'Listen. It is as I told your husband. You have nothing to fear from me. It is not you that I mean to hurt, _cherie_. I have mended him well; he will soon look as handsome as he usually does, _non_? Now, _bon courage_! You will need all the strength you have to endure tomorrow, but I will not let them hurt you, or _him_'.

The nurse came back with the tray while Marie-Laure scrubbed her hands and put on gloves. She parted Therese's hair, and made the nurse hold it down, while she began to squeeze what felt like ointment on the wound. 'It is experimental, but your wound is not too deep, so I think it will heal without the need for sutures, or for shaving the head' she said, giving the nurse a sharp glare. 'Now, take her back to her room; she needs to rest'. She put her hand on Therese's abdomen. 'He is due very soon, I think' she murmured.

'It's a girl' Therese whispered back. 'I think Illya wanted a boy, but he's come round to it'. A cold look spread rapidly over the Frenchwoman's face, to be extinguished just as quickly. 'Ah oui,' she said. 'He will make a good father; perhaps you will have boys too, eventually'.

'Do you have children?' Therese asked after a few moments silence.

'Yes. I had a child, once' she replied. The intensity of the moment struck Therese forcibly. Something was being held back, some memory that was too painful to share.

'_Je suis vraiment désolé_'.

'_Merci, ma chère. _The years have passed. I have a different life now. Now, you must rest'.

It was only in the quietness of her room that Therese reflected on the conversation and wondered about the Frenchwoman. Her manner seemed completely at odds to the brutality of the others; but there was something equally mysterious in that conversation. She seemed to know about Illya; to know about him, and even to understand him. Therese reached out her hand and placed it on the wall. He was somewhere in this building; somewhere near her. The little figure from the crib came into her mind. _Jesus, son of God, son of Mary, protect us this night. May we be delivered from all that is evil and, with our child, become a family, as you were in Nazareth._

In the middle of the night, Therese rolled on her side, to realise that the pain in her back had not gone away. A deeper rhythmic feeling in her abdomen was taking over, causing her mind to clear. To clear and to be free.


End file.
